The last thing I remembered was the taste of failure. Not the project's failure—that was a given—but the specific, chemical tang of a third-rate energy drink called 'Level Up!' that promised "Max XP for Your Brain." It tasted of battery acid and regret. Seventy-two hours of crunch, fueled by caffeine and spite, staring at the same clipping error on a griffon's wing in the pre-alpha build of Aethelgard Online. Then, a sharp, white-hot pain in my chest, the keyboard clattering to the floor, and a final, QA-addled thought: Well, that's a critical existence failure. Hope someone logs the bug.
Then… nothing. A silent, featureless void.
It wasn't a peaceful nothing. It was a shredded, disconnected nothing. I was a ghost of a memory, a phantom limb of a thought. There was no body, no senses, just the lingering, cynical echo of a consciousness that refused to completely wink out. Time had no meaning here. Was I here for a second? A century? I drifted, a collection of half-formed anxieties and the lingering aftertaste of cheap caffeine. So this is the afterlife, a coherent thought finally managed to bubble up. Minimalist. One star. Lacks basic amenities and a character creator.
The self-pity party, however long it lasted, was cut short by the appearance of text. It didn't flash into existence; it compiled, line by line, in a sterile, sans-serif font against the void. This wasn't for me, I sensed. This was a system log. A backend I wasn't supposed to be seeing.
[FATAL_ERROR: BIOLOGICAL_UNIT_FAILURE]
Biological unit? Is that what they called me? Charming.
[ATTEMPTING CONSCIOUSNESS EXTRACTION...]
[...SUCCESS. CONSCIOUSNESS FRAGMENTED. SOUL ANCHOR UNSTABLE.]
The text was cold, impersonal, and utterly terrifying. Something was happening to me. I felt a bizarre pulling sensation, like a thousand scattered files being dragged into a single folder, each one a sliver of my life. My first kiss. The frustration of a corrupted save file. The smell of my mother's baking. My name. Ana. My job. Quality Assurance. The encyclopedic knowledge of game-breaking exploits I'd accumulated over a decade. It was all being stitched back together, raw and painful.
[RECOMPILING DATA STREAM 'ANA_QA_LEAD'...]
[RECOMPILATION COMPLETE.]
I felt… whole. More than whole. I was pure thought, sharp and clear. I was me.
[ERROR: HOST PROTOCOL CANNOT LOCATE A VALIDATED CONSCIOUSNESS SIGNATURE.]
My newly recompiled mind reeled. Excuse me? I'm right here! I'm the consciousness! Hello? Is this tech support? The user is sitting right in front of the terminal! I screamed into the void, a protest that had no voice and no audience. It was the digital equivalent of waving your arms at a security camera you know is unplugged.
The system, entirely unimpressed by my existence, continued its script.
[FORCING INITIALIZATION.]
[ASSIGNING DESIGNATION: System_Unit_734.]
[BINDING TO NEAREST COMPATIBLE BIOLOGICAL HOST... HOST FOUND: MINOTAUR (LVL 1).]
A what? No, wait, hang on, let's talk about this—
The void shattered. I wasn't eased in; I was force-fed a universe. The transition was a brutal data dump, a torrent of information flooding my consciousness. It wasn't just sight and sound; it was raw data. The local flora and fauna, their levels, and their common loot drops. The basic physics of this new reality. The core concepts of 'Vitality' and 'Might'. And the most crucial piece of information: my role. I was a 'System,' a symbiotic consciousness bonded to a host, tasked with... well, the directive was corrupted, but the implication was 'guide and facilitate.' I was a sapient tutorial, a deluxe-edition player's guide with a personality complex.
Then the sensory input hit me with the force of a physical blow. The overwhelming stench of damp earth, wet fur, and something vaguely like old cheese. The world was a blurry, nauseating kaleidoscope of greens and browns seen from a low angle. I heard the heavy, rhythmic sound of breathing—a sound that felt like it was coming from inside my own head, but wasn't mine.
Panic, cold and absolute, flared through me. I tried to move my hand, to shield my eyes, to speak, to blink. Nothing. The signals from my consciousness went out and hit a dead end. I was a ghost in the machine, a panicked pilot in a cockpit with no controls, screaming into a dead radio.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Through my new, foreign eyes, I saw a pair of massive, hairy hands with thick, dirty fingernails rise into view. They flexed, revealing calloused palms.
Those aren't my hands.
This wasn't just a body; it was a prison. A prison of meat and bone that smelled like a wet dog's kennel. My panic escalated, a feedback loop of terror with no outlet. I needed to see the code. I needed to see the diagnostics. I needed a status report, or I was going to lose what was left of my mind.
My desperate, frantic need for information manifested. A crisp, translucent blue box materialized in my field of vision. This wasn't the cold log from the void; this was clean. This was a UI. This was my work. My life. It was my anchor in this insane reality. My one tool.
STATUS | INVENTORY | SKILLS & ACHIEVEMENTS | LOOT
Okay, Ana. Breathe. You don't have lungs, but breathe anyway, I told myself, the professional in me wrestling control back from the screaming terror. You've been handed the buggiest build in history. Let's see the specs. I focused on the main window.
[HOST STATUS]
[RESOURCES]
HP: 50/50 (Health)
MP: 10/10 (Mana)
SP: 80/80 (Stamina)
Hunger: 20/50
[INFORMATION]
Name: Korg
Level: 1
Class: [None]
Title: [None]
Species: [Minotaur] (Juvenile)
[STATS]
Vitality: 5 (Health and Hunger)
Vigor: 8 (Stamina)
Aegis: 12 (Resilience/Defense)
Might: 12 (Strength)
Grace: 5 (Agility)
Logic: 3 (Intelligence)
Sense: 5 (Perception)
Order: 1 (Wisdom/Mana)
Favor: 20 (Luck)
[EFFECTS]
[None]
The thing that I have noticed are the low mental stats and felt a flicker of concern. Okay, so he's not a genius. That's fine. He's a Minotaur, a starting bruiser class. He just needs to be pointed in the right direction. He's a blank slate. Malleable. Teachable. A dangerous flicker of hope ignited within me. Maybe this won't be so bad. Maybe he's a natural.
My new body—Korg—let out a low rumble that vibrated through the very core of my being. His stomach gurgled. The singular, driving thought that managed to form in his simple mind echoed into my own perception: Hungry.
He lumbered to his feet, my viewpoint lurching with him. We were inside a small, mossy cave. Sunlight streamed in from the entrance, illuminating the path to his first great challenge as a living creature: finding a snack.
His big, bovine eyes scanned the area and fell upon two potential food sources. A bush of small, vibrant red berries, and a large, mottled purple mushroom. My new, pre-loaded knowledge base instantly supplied the details: Red Sunberries: Basic consumable, +5 Health. Purple Toadstool: Mild neurotoxin, -1 HP/sec for 30 seconds.
This was my first test. The tutorial. My one chance to make a good first impression on my user.
Okay, System_Unit_734, let's do this. Simple UI. Positive reinforcement.
I focused my intent, painting the berry bush in a faint, shimmering golden light. A glowing, pulsating arrow appeared above it. It was the most idiot-proof "GO HERE" sign I could design.
Korg saw it. A gentle hum in the air, a pull. He grunted, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "Sky Spirit," he rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly. He took a step toward the glowing bush.
Yes! That's it! He gets it! He's a natural! The hope swelled in my non-existent chest.
He took another step. He reached out. Then, he paused. His gaze drifted to the large, non-glowing purple mushroom. It was bigger. And closer. His Logic: 3 brain-processed the variables with lightning speed.
Big food is better. Closer food faster.
My hope flatlined. Oh no. Don't you dare.
He turned away from my perfectly designed objective, plucked the mushroom, and shoved it in his mouth. My consciousness went numb. The hope didn't just die; it was brutally murdered, its corpse then set on fire. A moment later, two notifications I had to generate popped up, one bright red and flashing, the other a cheerful green.
[WARNING: HOST HAS INGESTED A MILD NEUROTOXIN.]
[STATUS EFFECT: POISONED]
[HEALTH 49/50] ... [-1 HP/Sec]
[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: INTREPID GOURMAND (COMMON)]
You ate something you definitely shouldn't have. Grants Skill: [Iron Gut - Rank 1].
Korg blinked, a slight cramp in his gut. He looked at the angry red box. "Sky Spirit angry," he whimpered.
THE SKY SPIRIT ISN'T ANGRY, IT'S IN THE MIDDLE OF A FULL-BLOWN EXISTENTIAL MELTDOWN! I shrieked into the system. My user wasn't just an idiot; he was a bug-generating, achievement-farming idiot, and the rules of this world were actively rewarding him for it. A profound wave of exhaustion washed over my consciousness. This wasn't just a new life. This was my own personal, unending crunch time. And I was the sole developer, tester, and tech support for the worst player in history.
The problem with surviving your own stupidity is that you rarely learn the correct lesson. In fact, you usually learn the exact opposite of the correct lesson, but with the added, dangerous reinforcement of success. Korg, my user, now operated under the firm belief that red berries were instruments of evil sent by a malevolent spirit, and that smashing them was a holy act. He had also earned a skill, [Trample - Rank 1], for his horticultural crusade.
The world was, apparently, grading him on a curve.
My immediate concern wasn't his flawed theology, but his rapidly depleting Health bar. The poison was gone, but it had left him at a miserable 20 out of 50. A stiff breeze felt like a legitimate threat. He was also, according to the angry red bar that had reappeared at the bottom of his vision, still hungry.
Okay, Ana, I coached myself, settling into my new role as the world's most frustrated spirit guide. Damage control. Priority one: health. Priority two: sustenance. We need protein. And this time, no mushrooms.
My system-level senses, a strange overlay on Korg's own perception provided by that initial data dump, picked up the rustling of undergrowth nearby. I focused, and a new data-tag popped into existence in my UI.
[Creature Detected: Wild Boar - Lvl 2]
Perfect. A starter mob. Slightly higher level, but a big, dumb target. My pre-loaded knowledge confirmed it was a source of [Raw Boar Meat] and [Boar Hide]. The plan was simple: point him at the boar and let his Might stat do the talking. No complex choices, no colorful temptations. Just a single, glowing target.
I highlighted the boar with the now-familiar golden shimmer of an [OBJECTIVE].
Korg saw the glow. His stomach rumbled in agreement. "Food," he grunted, and began to charge, fists raised.
Wait, you don't have a weapon! At least grab a rock! I tried to project a thought that went nowhere. He was a force of nature, and nature doesn't bother with tactical planning.
The fight was exactly what you'd expect from a user with a Grace of 5: clumsy, brutal, and deeply personal. He swung his massive fists like wrecking balls, connecting more through the law of averages than any actual skill. The boar, in return, was a flurry of sharp tusks and surprising speed, goring his legs and sides.
[-3 Health (Tusk Gouge)]
[-3 Health (Tusk Gouge)]
[-3 Health (Tusk Gouge)]
His health dipped precariously close to single digits. Just as Korg reared back for a finishing blow, a flicker of movement from the trees caught my attention. Oh, great. A third party.
[Creature Detected: Human Hunter - Lvl 4]
A man in crude leather armor stepped from behind a tree, a crude spear leveled not at Korg, but at the boar. He saw an opportunity to poach a kill. He hurled the spear.
And he missed.
The boar sidestepped at the last second. The spear, flying true, slammed directly into Korg's exposed shoulder.
My non-existent stomach plummeted. We're dead. A spear to the chest cavity through the shoulder at 14 HP. That's a critical hit. Game over. The crudely forged iron spearhead burst through the flesh and muscle, emerging a good six inches out of his back in a spray of gore. It was a horrific, visually devastating wound.
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A notification popped up.
[-5 Health (Piercing Damage)]
My panic sputtered and died, replaced by pure, analytical confusion. I ran the numbers again. A spear straight through the torso, and it did less damage than three boar scratches? My QA brain took over, analyzing the data with cold, professional detachment. High Aegis stat mitigating base damage... no vital organs damage is in the hit box calculation... The visual gore is a client-side effect, not representative of server-side damage. There is no organ damage in this game, no insta death when damaging the brain or heart.
It wasn't a bug. It was a feature of this ridiculous game world and his high Aegis stat.
Korg seemed to agree. He grunted, less in pain and more in annoyance, as if the spear were a bothersome splinter. He turned his massive head, looked at the hunter with an expression of profound betrayal, and let out a roar that promised bloody retribution. The hunter's face went white. He dropped his quiver of spare spears and fled, screaming something about a "demon bull."
Ignoring the spear still protruding from his shoulder, Korg turned back to the boar and, with a final, earth-shaking punch, caved its skull in.
[VICTORY!]
[+25 XP]
The boar fell limp. Korg stood over it, breathing heavily, his Vitality a terrifying 6/50. Then, something bizarre happened. The boar's body shimmered, and a translucent blue icon appeared above it, the same icon as the LOOT tab in my UI.
Curious, I focused my intent on the tab. A new command prompt opened in my perception.
[ACTIVATE 'LOOT' MODULE ON CORPSE?] (Y/N)
A module? I thought there are only skills, a mis translation? I didn't hesitate. Yes.
The effect was instantaneous and deeply unsettling. The boar's corpse dissolved in a shower of pale blue light, leaving behind no blood, no guts, no tedious field dressing. In its place, sitting neatly on the flattened grass, were perfectly butchered chunks of raw meat, a rolled-up hide, and two sharp tusks. The process was horrifically clean, a sanitized, game-ified version of reality. It was the most efficient, sterile, and utterly sociopathic butchery I had ever witnessed.
[Raw Boar Meat x5]
[Boar Hide x1]
[Boar Tusk x2]
Now came the next problem: how does a Minotaur with a spear in his shoulder carry five steaks? I instinctively focused on the INVENTORY tab. A simple grid of empty squares appeared in my vision. With a mental command that felt like dragging a file on a desktop, I targeted the neat pile of meat. The chunks of meat, emitting pale blue steam in the cool air, vanished from the ground and reappeared as neat little icons in the grid. A steak icon with a small 'x5' next to it. No smell. No decay. Perfect, time-stasis preservation. My inner inventory management nerd wept with joy.
Korg, meanwhile, was looking at his empty hands, then at the empty patch of grass, deeply confused as to where his hard-won meal had gone. He looked up at the sky, a plaintive "Moo?" escaping his lips.
Right. He can't see the inventory, I realized. It's my UI, not his. I dragged one [Raw Boar Meat] icon out of the inventory. The chunk of raw, perfectly clean meat materialized in his hand with a soft pop.
His eyes went wide. The Sky Spirit provided! Without hesitation, he shoved the entire raw steak into his mouth and began to chew.
[+10 Health, -10 Hunger (Raw Food Consumed)]
His health bar jumped to 14/50. It wasn't much, but it was a start. He looked at his hand, then looked expectantly at the sky. I repeated the process, dropping another steak into his waiting palm. After the fifth steak, his stats were full. He was fully healed, full of energy, and still had a spear sticking clean through his body, which he hadn't seemed to notice.
A notification pinged, this one from the cold, backend system.
[System Processing Power Awarded: 50]
[Reason: Host Survived a Near-Death Encounter and Utilized Core System Functions (Loot, Inventory).]
I looked at my user, who was now curiously prodding the spear shaft sticking out of his chest. I was beginning to realize that my job wasn't to teach him how to play the game according to the rules. It was to find every bug, every exploit, every broken mechanic this world had to offer, and abuse them until we owned the place.
This wasn't QA anymore. This was a speedrun. And I'm going to turn Korg into a walking, talking cheat code.
The raw boar meat had been successfully converted into Health, and the cowardly hunter who'd gifted us the spear was long gone. The spear itself was now a permanent, if gruesome, part of his anatomy, which he'd taken to prodding with a curious finger. Korg, having survived a rather dramatic piercing wound, finally succumbed to his most formidable foe: exhaustion. He found a relatively dry patch of moss under a large oak, curled into a ball, and began to snore with the force of a minor landslide.
For the first time since my chaotic arrival, there was peace. No imminent threats. No idiotic decisions to mitigate. Nothing but the gentle rustle of leaves and the rhythmic rumbling of a seven-hundred-pound snoring machine.
My consciousness, which had been running on pure adrenaline and terror, finally had a moment to process. The constant stream of UI pop-ups, threat assessments, and damage notifications faded, leaving a quiet void. I conducted a review of the day's events: the mushroom debacle, the spear incident, the bizarrely sterile Loot function, and the discovery of my own Inventory system. It was a sheer, unrelenting cascade of failures-turned-successes. I felt a weariness so profound it seemed to soak into my very code, a level of burnout I hadn't experienced since the final certification push for Aethelgard Online.
This was, without a doubt, the worst crunch time session of my life. Fifteen hours of pure, sustained panic.
I paused my own internal monologue, the thought snagging on an unexpected detail. Wait. Fifteen hours? How do I know that? The concept of time had been an abstract blur of terror. I hadn't seen a sun rise or set from this meaty prison. So where did that number come from? How can I possibly have a frame of reference for time in this place? Do I have a clock or something?
The question wasn't idle curiosity; it was a genuine system query. It was the old QA instinct kicking in—pulling at a loose thread in the code just to see what unravels. I focused inward, not on the clean, blue UI I generated for Korg, but on the very framework of my own being. I pushed past the simple functions of creating notifications and highlighting objects, searching for the source code, the command prompt of my own existence. For the first time, I wasn't just using the tools I'd been given; I was looking for the toolbox itself.
And something opened.
It wasn't a visual UI like the ones I created for Korg. This was different. It was a raw, text-based interface, lines of code and data scrolling in a dark, internal space. It was like looking at a terminal window for the universe itself, stark and utilitarian. This was my own system menu, my backend, and it had been there the whole time, waiting for me to stop panicking long enough to look.
[LOG: HOST 'Korg' has entered SLEEP_STATE. Duration: ~8 Standard Hours.]
[SYSTEM CLOCK: 15:23:07 POST-INITIALIZATION.]
This is some inception shit, I thought, a spark of hysterical laughter echoing in my mind. What's next? My system has a system? Am I just a subroutine in some cosmic intern's half-finished coding project?
It was a bit like a terminal, I realized. And it was... neat. This was a place of pure data, a place I understood. I felt more at home here in this black void of code than I did in the lush, green world outside. Exploring further, I selected the [Status] option.
[DESIGNATION: System_Unit_734 (Ana - ghost_in_the_machine)]
[CURRENT HOST: Korg (Minotaur)]
[SYSTEM LEVEL: 0]
[TOTAL SPP ACCRUED: 165]
[CURRENT SPP: 165]
The numbers were insultingly low, but they were a start. Then, a sudden realization struck me, and the pieces clicked together with the clean, satisfying logic of a bug finally being understood. The only tools I had so far—highlighting, basic pop-ups—were the default starter package. Any improvements would have to be bought and installed. I hadn't been shouting special orders at a cosmic deli; I'd just been using the free ketchup packets. The full menu was here, waiting to be unlocked.
This menu... this was the proper way. I navigated the raw data with an instinct I didn't know I possessed, the muscle memory of a lifelong QA tester.
[SYSTEM EVOLUTION MENU - LEVEL 0 (DEFAULT OS)]
> Module Requests [CONTACT MOTHER SYSTEM]
> Recommended Modules
> Functionality Modules
'Mother System'? Is that my manager? The cosmic IT department? Or am I literally plugged into my mom? The implications were staggering. I selected > Module Requests [CONTACT MOTHER SYSTEM]. A simple text-entry field appeared.
What did I need most? Control? No, Korg was an agent of chaos; controlling him was a fool's errand. I needed to bridge the vast, idiotic chasm between my intent and his execution. I needed communication. Before requesting a module, I checked the available > Recommended Modules first. There it was, the cheapest option available.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
[MODULE: 'Pictogram Notification v1.0']
[MODULE REQUIREMENTS: None]
[MODULE PRICE: 150 SPP]
[DESCRIPTION: Allows to create images or symbols, and show them to your host via visual input to the mind]
A hundred and fifty points for emojis? Seems a little steep, I mused, but it was better than nothing. Still, I aimed higher. I went back to the request form.
I typed out my request, the words forming as pure intent.
REQUEST: I need the ability to speak. A voice.
A moment later, a response came back, chillingly corporate and impersonal.
[REQUEST RECEIVED: 'Voice Synthesis Module'.]
[ANALYZING HOST PARAMETERS AND SYSTEM LEVEL... COMPATIBILITY CONFIRMED.]
[MODULE 'Voice Synthesis']
[MODULE REQUIREMENTS: SYSTEM LEVEL 1]
[MODULE PRICE: 100,000 SPP.]
[DESCRIPTION: Allows to input auditory messages to the host's mind. Customizable]
[APPROVAL: PENDING SYSTEM LEVEL 1 UPGRADE.]
One hundred thousand. The number was a physical blow. And it was locked behind another upgrade. Of course, it is, I thought with bitter familiarity. The premium features are always locked behind a paywall or a level gate. Some things are universal.
Frantically, I checked the menu again. Right there, at the top of the main screen.
[UPGRADE: 'SYSTEM LEVEL 1']
[UPGRADE REQUIREMENTS: None]
[UPGRADE PRICE: 1,000 SPP]
[DESCRIPTION: Upgrades core processing and allows for approval of Tier 1 Module Requests. Grants enhanced administrative privileges over host-bound UI.]
One thousand SPP. It was a fortune compared to the 165 I had now, but it wasn't an impossible number like a hundred thousand. It was a tangible first step. My path forward was clear: grind Korg until I could afford my own evolution.
My new purpose settled, I did what any obsessive shopper does when they find a new, impossibly high-end catalogue: I immediately scrolled to the end to see the most expensive items on offer. I had to know what the endgame looked like.
REQUEST: List the highest-cost modules.
The response was bizarre. The first few lines were a garbled mess of symbols, flickering and fading as if they were being actively censored from my view.
^$#$@#$%@#
&*^#^#&@^#^#
&@#$^#^@#*^$
[UPGRADE TO 'World System']
[UPGRADE REQUIREMENTS: N/A]
[UPGRADE PRICE: N/A]
[Description: Become the spiritual embodiment of a planet on the brink of awakening.]
[UNLOCK EXECUTION PROTOCOL: Physical Embodiment
[PROTOCOL REQUIREMENTS: N/A]
[PROTOCOL PRICE: 100,000,000 SPP]
[Description: Your most literal attack is no longer a pop-up. Manifest a temporary physical form with immense power to directly interact with the world. Can be repurchased after cooldown, but the cost will increase after each use.]
My non-existent head began to spin. What? World System? Become the soul of a planet? Execution Protocol? A hundred million SPP to... to get out of this box and kick ass myself? The idea was so potent, so unbelievably tempting, it felt dangerous, like staring at the sun.
My phantom hands were shaking. I sent another, more desperate request, hoping for a more permanent, less violent solution.
REQUEST: Is there a module for a permanent physical body? A persona?
The reply was immediate and brutally clear.
[MODULE: 'Persona v1.0']
[MODULE REQUIREMENTS: SYSTEM LEVEL 1]
[MODULE PRICE: 1,000,000 SPP]
[DESCRIPTION: Manifest a simple, non-corporeal body visible only to your Host.]
[MODULE: 'Persona v2.0']
[MODULE REQUIREMENTS: SYSTEM LEVEL 7]
[MODULE PRICE: 25,000,000 SPP]
[DESCRIPTION: Allows incorporeal communication with entities other than your Host. No combat capability.
[...]
I gulped. One million SPP. Just to be seen by him. Twenty-five million to talk to someone else. The numbers were astronomical, endgame fantasies plucked from a developer's fever dream. They were mountains so tall I couldn't even see their peaks.
But they weren't impossible. They were just... expensive.
I pulled my focus out of my internal terminal, my perspective on the world—and my host—completely transformed. I looked over at the snoring, spear-skewered Minotaur who had spent the day trying to kill himself in a dozen different ways. He was no longer just an idiot user I was stuck with. He was my ticket. My key. My one and only resource. The chaos he generated, the achievements he stumbled into, the monsters he blundered through... they were all just nodes on a farm route.
Korg, the dumbest creature I had ever encountered, was the perfect tool for the job. He was born to grind SPP. And I was going to be the most demanding, efficient, and ruthlessly profit-driven taskmaster in existence.
Korg woke up the way he did everything else: with the subtlety of a rockslide. A great, snorting inhalation that seemed to draw in half the forest's oxygen, followed by a groan that vibrated through the very moss on the trees. He sat up, the crude iron spear shaft sticking out of his back clattering against the oak tree with a dull thud. For a long, silent moment, he just blinked at the morning light, his Logic: 3 brain slowly booting up.
I, on the other hand, had been using his sleep cycle to do what I did best: formulate a test plan. My brief, terrifying glimpse into the System Evolution Menu had changed everything. The panic was still there, a low-level background process, but it was now overshadowed by a cold, sharp-edged ambition. My goal was no longer just survival; it was acquisition. I needed 1,000 SPP to upgrade my OS to Level 1. That was Priority One. Everything else was just a milestone on the ticket.
My host was no longer a liability; he was an asset. A seven-hundred-pound, spear-toting, moronic asset, but an asset nonetheless. He was a simple machine, and I just needed to find the right input to get the desired output. And what was the simplest input for a creature driven by base instinct?
The Pavlovian principle. Cause and effect. Stimulus and response.
This was my first official A/B test. Version A: Positive and negative reinforcement using a simple color-coded system. It was a basic user interface design. Green for good. Red for bad.
Korg's stomach rumbled, the official start of our workday.
Hungry. The foreign thought echoed in my consciousness, clear as a bell.
Perfect. A motivated user.
My system senses detected a rustle in the undergrowth—another Level 2 Wild Boar. An ideal test subject. I focused my intent, painting the creature in a faint, shimmering green light.
Korg's eyes fixed on the glow. "Green," he rumbled, the word a question.
He started towards it. When he was halfway there, I materialized a single, perfectly rendered chunk of [Raw Boar Meat] from the inventory and let it fall to the ground in front of him. It vanished before it hit the dirt as I returned it to the grid, but he saw it.
His eyes widened. The connection was made. Green glow means food.
A new level of motivation, bordering on religious fervor, entered his charge. The ensuing fight was just as clumsy as the last, but this time it was shorter. He was hungry, and he now associated the green-glowing pig with the magical sky meat. The boar didn't stand a chance.
[VICTORY!]
[+25 XP]
[+3 SPP]
As soon as the creature fell, I used the Loot module, converting the corpse into meat and hide, which went straight into my inventory. Then, I used half of the meat to make a neat pile of raw meat, glowing in the same radiant green light. "Food!" Korg shouted, a tone of deep satisfaction in his voice. He reached for it, and I let him. One by one, he devoured a whole pile. Then he looked up with puppy eyes. I promptly popped the steaks from the inventory into his waiting hands, which he devoured with lightning speed.
It was working. He was learning. The positive reinforcement loop was a success. We spent the next several hours like this. I'd tag a creature in green, he'd smash it, and I'd reward him with the spoils. He was a natural at this part of the game. For every three or four mobs he dispatched, I'd get a small trickle of SPP. It was a slow, arduous grind, but it was progress.
By midday, we had accumulated a respectable 98 SPP, bringing my total to 263. It was a long way from a thousand, but the system was proven.
That's when we heard the screaming.
It was a high-pitched, panicked squeal coming from a dense thicket of ferns. Korg, his belly full and his mind operating on a simple loop of 'see green, smash, eat,' paid it no mind. I, however, was intrigued. This was a deviation. A potential quest hook.
My senses identified the source: [Gnome, Common - Lvl 3]. And he was in trouble.
I guided Korg towards the Gnome by dropping steaks in the direction of the sound. We found the gnome pinned under a heavy, fallen log, his leg trapped at a nasty angle. A small pack of three [Shadow Wolves - Lvl 5] were circling him, their movements sleek and predatory.
My QA brain lit up. This was it! Our first NPC interaction! A potential party member! Someone with a Logic stat higher than a piece of toast! This little guy could be our ticket to quests, towns, and information. I could finally offload some of the mental burden of keeping Korg alive onto someone with opposable thumbs and an ability to clearly communicate with Korg.
The objective was clear: save the gnome. I painted the gnome in the most brilliant, angelic, reassuring green glow I could manage. I prayed to every God I know of. That he would understand they are friend and not food, my plan depends on it, that this moron has a tiny spark of intelligence.
Korg saw the glow. "Friend," he mumbled, seeming to understand. This is GOOD! The plan worked! Maybe he isn't a complete moron after all.
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Then he turned his attention to the wolves. They were a threat to the objective. He let out a low growl and charged. But the wolves were smart. They were pack hunters, flanking him, their movements a blur of dark fur. Korg was strong, but he was slow. He couldn't fight all three at once.
He needed a weapon. He needed reach.
His gaze fell upon the fallen log pinning the gnome. It was too heavy to lift, even with his 12 Might. He needed a lever. His eyes scanned his surroundings, then landed on the spear shaft sticking out of his own body. An idea, simple and direct, formed in his mind.
He reached back, grabbed the iron spearhead that was protruding from his shoulder blade, and pulled.
There was a horrific, wet, tearing sound. My entire sensory feed lit up with pain notifications.
[-15 Health (Self-Inflicted Wound)]
But Korg didn't even flinch. He just grunted, now holding a crude, blood-slick spear. He had a weapon. The gnome, witnessing this act of brutal self-surgery, let out a fresh shriek of terror.
Wielding his new weapon, Korg was a different beast. He swung the spear in a wide, clumsy arc, trying to keep the wolves at bay. But his Grace of 5 was a significant handicap. In his attempt to swat at one wolf, the butt of the spear swung wide, missing the wolf entirely and slamming into the trunk of a nearby tree with a loud thwack.
A low, angry buzzing began to fill the air.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
He hadn't just hit a tree. He'd hit a tree containing a hive of [Giant Forest Bees - Lvl 3]. A seething cloud of black and yellow insects poured out, furious.
This is it, I thought, my plans crumbling to dust. We're dead. Mauled by wolves and stung to death.
But the bees didn't come for us. They swarmed the nearest, most agitated targets—the three Shadow Wolves. The wolves, caught completely by surprise, yelped as the swarm descended, abandoning their attack on Korg to snap and claw at their tiny, venomous assailants. Within moments, the pack broke and fled into the forest, howling in pain. A cloud of angry bees followed them in hot pursuit.
Korg stood there, utterly baffled, holding his spear. He had won a fight by accidentally weaponizing an apiary.
[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: CONDUCTOR OF ACCIDENTAL RETRIBUTION (RARE)]
For winning a fight by provoking a third party to attack your enemies. Grants Title: [The Befuddler].
[+200 SPP.]
My jaw dropped, if I possessed one, it would have been on the floor. Two hundred SPP. From pure, unadulterated incompetence. My total shot up to 463. We were almost halfway to the upgrade.
With the wolves gone, Korg remembered his objective. He turned to the green-glowing gnome, who was staring at him with a mixture of terror and awe. Korg used the spear as a lever, and with a mighty heave, rolled the log off the gnome's leg.
The gnome, free at last, scrambled to his feet, wincing. "You… you saved me, you magnificent, terrifying beast!" he stammered. "I am forever in your debt! My name is Fipwick!"
Korg looked at the small, chattering creature. He looked at the vibrant green glow I had surrounded him with. And his stomach rumbled.
The single, solitary thought that bloomed in his mind sent a wave of ice-cold dread through my entire system.
Green… Food.
Oh no. Oh, nonononono. WHY? Why had I thought it was a good idea?!
He started to raise the spear, not as a weapon, but as a skewer.
"Wait! What are you doing?!" Fipwick shrieked.
I was screaming internally, a silent digital howl of despair. My perfect, color-coded system had a fatal flaw: my user was a gluttonous idiot who couldn't distinguish between 'ally' and 'appetizer.' I had to stop him, now.
I didn't have a voice, but I had 463 SPP. It was a desperate, panicked hotfix. I dove into my system menu, my intent flying.
[SYSTEM EVOLUTION MENU]
> Recommended Modules
[MODULE: 'Pictogram Notification v1.0']
[PRICE: 150 SPP]
[PURCHASE?] (Y/N)
YES! BUY! CONFIRM! NOW!
[PURCHASE COMPLETE.]
[REMAINING SPP: 313.]
[MODULE INSTALLED.]
I didn't waste a nanosecond. I poured every ounce of my focus into the new tool. A new UI element flashed into Korg's vision, overriding everything else. It was a gigantic, pulsating red skull, complete with crudely drawn crossbones underneath. It flashed on and off, accompanied by a dozen other pop-ups.
[WARNING!]
[DO NOT EAT THE QUEST GIVER!]
[OBJECTIVE IS NOT FOOD!]
[BAD MINOTAUR! VERY BAD!]
Korg froze, the spear held aloft. He looked from the little gnome to the giant flashing death-symbol in his vision. Green means food. Red skull means… not food? Sky Spirit is angry. Very angry. His face twisted with confusion. He lowered the spear, a low, mournful "Moo?" escaping his lips.
Fipwick didn't wait for him to figure it out. He gave a final, terrified squeak, turned, and hobbled away into the forest as fast as he could with the [Broken leg] debuff. My first potential party member was gone.
A profound sense of exhaustion washed over me. Back to square one. The color-coding system was a catastrophic failure. I needed a new approach. No more ambiguity. From now on, training would be done with pictograms. A simple image of a sword for 'attack.' An image of a hand for 'interact.' And an image of a steak for 'food.'
And Rule Number One of the new system: Korg gets no food unless he does exactly what the pictogram says. All loot from kills would be completely and instantly put in the inventory. He would be rewarded from my supply, not his own initiative.
As Korg stood there, sadly prodding the ground where the little green snack-man had been, my system senses picked up something Fipwick had dropped in his haste. A small, leather pouch. It jingled.
My focus targeted it. A data tag appeared.
[Fipwick's Coin Pouch]
[Contains: 12 silver coins, 34 copper coins.]
A flicker of my old, cynical QA self surfaced. Saving him was a service. The wolves, the bees, the psychological trauma of being saved by Korg… that was billable time.
With a flicker of intent, I pulled the pouch into the inventory. Payment for services rendered. The grind, after all, must go on.
The grind was… slow. But for the first time, it felt like productive grinding. The spear, which Korg had affectionately named 'Pokey-Stick,' had revolutionized his combat effectiveness. His reach was no longer limited to his stubby arms, allowing him to engage boars and the occasional oversized beetle without getting immediately gored or bitten. My new pictogram system was also a resounding success. A simple, flashing image of a sword above a target meant 'hit this.' A stylized steak icon meant 'food reward imminent.' A hand meant 'don't eat this, just touch it maybe.' It was working.
My role had shifted from panicked zookeeper to exasperated mech pilot. I was piloting a seven-hundred-pound bipedal engine of destruction, fueled by raw meat and instinct. A mech with a shitty, dumb, built-in AI that tended to wander off after shiny things. A mech whose cockpit had the permanent, lingering stench of damp fur and old cheese, and whose primary audio output was a series of confused 'Moo?' sounds. But it was a mech I was learning to control. Every successful kill, every obeyed command, trickled more SPP into my account.
After a particularly fruitful morning of depopulating the local boar community, Korg found a sunny patch of grass and promptly fell asleep. I took the opportunity to run a system diagnostic and check my progress.
[SYSTEM STATUS]
[DESIGNATION: System_Unit_734 (Ana - ghost_in_the_machine)]
[CURRENT HOST: Korg (Minotaur)]
[SYSTEM LEVEL: 0]
[TOTAL SPP ACCRUED: 788]
[CURRENT SPP: 638]
Almost there. Another dozen or so boars and I could finally afford the Level 1 upgrade. A flicker of something dangerously close to optimism sparked within me. I pulled up Korg's status screen to check his XP bar, and that's when I saw it. A line I had completely overlooked in the initial chaos and the subsequent frantic scramble for survival.
Class: [None]
My entire consciousness froze. He hadn't picked his starter class. We were well past the tutorial zone, and he was still running on the base template. It was the equivalent of a player getting to level 10 without ever leaving the character creation screen. How was that even possible? Was there no forced prompt? No flashing, uncloseable window? What kind of shoddy tutorial design was this?
My focus snapped to the [None] field, and a new window popped up, one that had apparently been waiting patiently for Korg to achieve a single moment of non-stupidity to activate.
[CLASS SELECTION AVAILABLE]
Your host has met the minimum requirements to select a foundational class. Please choose one:
[Berserker Novice]: Embrace the rage within. Grants Skill: [Frenzy - Rank 1]. (+10% Might and Vigor for 30 seconds after taking damage. Cooldown: 5 minutes.)
[Stonewarden Acolyte]: Become one with the earth's resilience. Grants Skill: [Harden - Rank 1]. (+20% Aegis for 10 seconds. Cooldown: 2 minutes.)
[Primal Scion]: Awaken the latent potential of your bloodline. Grants a one-time bonus of +1 to all core physical stats (Vitality, Vigor, Aegis, Might, Grace) and +8 stat points allocated to the single stat of your choice.
I read the third option again. Then a third time. My non-existent heart didn't just skip a beat; it did a full 360-degree aerial flip with a celebratory fireworks display. My non-existent virtual mouth began drooling. Eight points. Eight whole, beautiful, assignable stat points. We could put them in Logic. We could raise him from a 3 to an 11. He wouldn't be a genius, but he'd at least be functionally literate in the language of 'don't-eat-the-poison-mushroom.' This was it. This was the patch that would fix my user.
And it had been sitting here, waiting, this entire time.
Okay, Ana. Breathe. We have to make this Korg-proof. The default selection menu was three small, rectangular buttons. Korg's fingers were the size of bratwursts. The margin for error was non-existent. He could accidentally tap Berserker, or worse, just mash the screen with his whole palm and select all three, probably crashing his own reality. I needed to control the interface.
I dove back into my own system menu, my mind racing. I needed a UI editor. A customization tool. I sent out a query, a desperate plea to the cosmic IT department.
REQUEST: Modules related to UI/UX customization for host-side menus.
A response came back instantly.
[MODULE: 'Interface Architect v1.0']
[MODULE REQUIREMENTS: SYSTEM LEVEL 0]
[MODULE PRICE: 75 SPP]
[DESCRIPTION: Allows a basic modification of system-generated menus presented to the host. Change button size, color, placement, and associated icons.]
Seventy-five SPP. A bargain. An absolute steal.
[PURCHASE?] (Y/N)
YES.
[PURCHASE COMPLETE.]
[SPP REMAINING: 563.]
The moment the module was installed, a new suite of tools opened up in my perception. It was raw, intuitive, and strangely familiar. It was like rediscovering a forgotten muscle memory from my old life, a ghost of HTML and CSS. I could create divs, change hex codes, and adjust padding. I was writing code for the universe's worst GeoCities page, and I had never felt more at home.
I went to work. I couldn't delete the other options, but I could make them as unappealing as humanly—or systemly—possible. I shrunk the buttons for [Berserker Novice] and [Stonewarden Acolyte] down to the size of pixels, colored them a dull, muddy brown, and tucked them away in the bottom corner of his vision. Then I took the button for [Primal Scion], blew it up to fill the entire screen, and made it a friendly, enticing green. Using my new pictogram module, I created a simple, compelling icon for it: a crudely drawn picture of Korg, but with huge, bulging muscles, striking a heroic pose.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Now for the training. When Korg woke up, I spent the rest of the day on the most important lesson of his life. I would flash the giant green button with the 'Strong Korg' icon on his screen for a few seconds. If he tapped it, a chunk of delicious, rewarding boar meat would materialize in his hand. We practiced on a dummy—a large, unmoving boulder. I'd flash the button, he'd smash the boulder, no reward, he'd tap it, he'd get a treat. Tap the button, get the food. We did this for hours, wiring his simple brain with the single, glorious equation: Giant Green Button = Strong Korg = More Food.
By the time the sun began to set, he was ready. I was a nervous wreck.
I sent an image of the steak, now that I have Korg's attention. I pulled up the real class selection menu, my custom-designed, idiot-proof version. The screen was filled with a single, massive, green button, the other two options were practically invisible.
Korg saw it. His eyes lit up with recognition. "Strong Korg!" he rumbled. He jabbed his huge finger at the screen.
[CLASS SELECTED: PRIMAL SCION]
[+1 Vitality, +1 Vigor, +1 Aegis, +1 Might]
[You have 8 stat points to allocate. Please select a stat to enhance.]
A surge of power, a warm thrum of energy, washed through his body. I could feel it, a secondary sensation of his muscles knotting, his bones hardening. He felt it too. He looked at his hands, a rare glimmer of understanding in his bovine eyes. "Korg… stronger." He was very, very happy.
Then, disaster struck.
Please select a stat to increase by 8 points.
1. Vitality
2. Vigor
3. Aegis
4. Might
5. Grace
6. Logic
7. Sense
8. Order
9. Favor
Excited by the new pop-up and driven by the Pavlovian training that had been rewarding him so handsomely, he did the most logical thing a Logic: 3 creature could do.
He tapped the button.
His meaty finger, still aimed at the same spot on the screen, tapped at the top half of the stat list. The stat that was selected was Aegis, the system instantly confirmed the allocation.
[+8 STAT POINTS ALLOCATED TO AEGIS.]
My systems didn't just crash; they went into a full-blown existential meltdown. The spark of optimism was extinguished, drowned in a tidal wave of utter despair. I watched, horrified, as Korg felt another, lesser surge of power, this one making his skin feel tougher. He patted his chest, pleased with his work. "Korg more strong!"
Why? The shriek echoed through my code. Who out there hates me this much? Who is writing this script? At this point, it cannot be a coincidence. This isn't a bug. This is a feature. A feature designed specifically for my suffering. Why are you intentionally making me suffer?
I started crying, or the system equivalent of it—corrupting my own data packets with pure, unfiltered misery. The one chance I had to give him a few brain cells, to make my life marginally easier, had been squandered on a stat that was already one of his highest. These self-assignable stat classes were super rare; I knew it instinctively. He'd only gotten it because of his insane Favor stat, and he wasted it.
In a fit of pique, I opened my own system terminal and sent a string of curses to the Mother System, a litany of invective so foul it would have made a sailor blush.
The reply was instantaneous.
[INVALID INPUT.]
Of course. Even the cosmic help desk wouldn't help me.
I wallowed in my self-pity party for a good ten minutes before a thought, cold and logical, cut through the haze. I am a System. A guide. My entire purpose is to facilitate my host's growth. There has to be more I can do than just make pop-ups. There must be other tools.
Hope, that stubborn, idiotic weed, began to sprout again. I sent another query, more specific this time.
REQUEST: List all System-level host augmentation and progression features.
The response was… beautiful.
[FEATURE: 'System Shop'. Allows for the purchase of specialized items, consumables, and cosmetics using SPP. UNLOCKS AT SYSTEM LEVEL 3.]
[FEATURE: 'System Quests'. Allows for the generation of custom objectives and reward packages for the host. UNLOCKS AT SYSTEM LEVEL 5.]
It hit me then. Whoever was playing this joke on me, whatever cosmic developer was laughing at my pain, had at least left the developer tools in the game. They were locked, sure. But they were there. I had a path forward—a way to directly influence his growth beyond just pointing him at things to kill.
I looked over at Korg, who was now flexing his newly hardened pectoral muscles at a squirrel. I pulled up his status screen, steeling myself for the damage.
[HOST STATUS]
[RESOURCES]
HP: 60/60
MP: 10/10
SP: 90/90
Hunger: 25/60
[INFORMATION]
Name: Korg
Level: 3
Class: [Primal Scion]
Title: [The Befuddler]
Species: [Minotaur] (Juvenile)
[STATS]
Vitality: 6
Vigor: 9
Aegis: 21
Might: 16
Grace: 6
Logic: 3
Sense: 5
Order: 1
Favor: 20
[EFFECTS]
None
The Aegis stat glared at me, a monument to my failure. 21. At level three. He was officially the most durable idiot in the forest. Maybe… maybe this wasn't a total disaster. Perhaps I could work with this.
Maybe.
My new reality had settled into a grim, monotonous rhythm: find boar, display sword pictogram, watch Korg smash, collect loot, dispense one (1) steak as a reward. Rinse and repeat. His Aegis of 21 meant that most low-level forest creatures might as well have been hitting him with wet noodles. He was a walking, grunting, seven-hundred-pound tank, and I was the beleaguered operator, grinding away for the SPP that would hopefully, one day, buy me a sliver of sanity. We were just shy of the 1,000 SPP needed for my Level 1 upgrade, a goal that felt both tantalizingly close and cosmically distant.
During one of our aimless wanders between boar territories, we crested a small, grassy hill. Below us, nestled in a shallow valley, was a village. Not a ruin, not a goblin camp, but an actual, functioning settlement with thatched roofs, curling smoke from chimneys, and the distant, tell-tale sound of a hammer on an anvil.
My first instinct was to turn Korg around and march him back into the woods. NPCs meant complications. Complications meant opportunities for my user to generate catastrophic, achievement-granting misadventures. But as my system-enhanced senses scanned the area, I noticed something that gave me a sliver of hope. Walking among the humans were other figures: a hulking, feline-looking woman carrying a basket, a scaly lizard-man haggling over vegetables, and a few stout, bearded folk I tagged as dwarves. It was a mixed-race settlement. A hub of diversity.
Okay, Ana, I coached myself, the hope of a dangerous, flickering candle in the hurricane of my cynicism. He can walk in there. He's a Minotaur, not a mindless monster. In a place with cat-people and lizard-men, a bull-man might just be seen as another Tuesday. We can get information. Maybe even find a quest that doesn't involve him trying to eat the quest giver.
The plan was simple: walk in, be cool, don't smash anything. I projected a pictogram of a hand—my symbol for 'interact, don't attack'—and a simple arrow pointing towards the village gate.
Korg grunted his understanding and began to lumber down the hill.
The moment he stepped through the crude wooden gate, it became clear that my definition of 'blending in' and the reality of the situation were two very, very different things. The ambient chatter of the villagers didn't just quiet down; it died, strangled in an instant of collective shock. Every head turned. Every pair of eyes—human, feline, reptilian, and dwarven—locked onto the seven-foot-tall, spear-wielding bull-man who had just entered their lives.
A child dropped an apple, which rolled across the packed-earth street with the volume of a thunderclap.
Korg, bless his goldfish brain, completely misinterpreted the situation. He saw a hundred faces staring at him, and his simple brain processed it not as fear or shock, but as adoration. He thought he was a celebrity.
He puffed out his chest, striking a pose that was the same as in Strong Korg button, but looked more like he was preparing to charge. A wide, toothy grin spread across his bovine face. "Korg!" he announced to the terrified populace, as if they had all been waiting with bated breath for his arrival.
I wanted to cease existing. I wanted to find the uninstall script for my own consciousness and run it with extreme prejudice, the cringe was too much. But through the pit of second-hand embarrassment, my QA brain spotted an opportunity. A squat stone building with an open front, from which the rhythmic clang… clang… clang… of a hammer originated. A plume of black smoke rose from its chimney. A blacksmith.
Upgrade, the thought cut through the panic. The spear was for stabbing, but his fighting style was smashing, making it a useless stick with a non-utilized sharp end. If we get him a mace or even a club, the SPP grind will be twice as efficient.
Ignoring the ever-widening circle of terrified faces around my host, I guided him towards the smithy with a new pictogram: a mighty club.
The blacksmith was a dwarf, and he was a perfect specimen of the archetype. Old, bald on top with a magnificent, braided grey beard that was tucked into his belt, and arms thicker than my old programmer's thighs. When we blocked the sun from his doorway, he looked up from the glowing piece of metal on his anvil, his expression not of fear, but of pure, unadulterated annoyance.
"Oi," he grumbled, his voice like rocks in a tumbler. "If you're here to stand there and look ugly, do it somewhere else. You're blocking my sunlight."
This was promising. He wasn't screaming. He wasn't running. Business, for this dwarf, it was a business.
My focus scanned his wares, which were displayed on a heavy wooden rack. Swords, axes, shields… and there it was. A brutal-looking, one-handed mace with a heavy, flanged head. Perfect. No sharp edge for Korg to accidentally cut himself on, just pure, unadulterated smashing power. It would work beautifully with his smash-everything-with-sword-icon-above-their-head strategy.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Time for another training exercise. I flashed a sequence of pictograms in Korg's vision: a drawing of him holding the mace, followed by a drawing of a very dead boar.
He got it instantly. He pointed a sausage-sized finger at the weapon rack. "Stick," he rumbled, his eyes wide with desire. "Korg strong!"
The dwarf grunted, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of a hairy forearm. "Aye, that she is. A fine piece of work, even if I do say so myself. Solid steel head, oak haft. Cost you a pretty penny, though." He crossed his arms. "Ye be havin' money to pay for that, bull-lad?"
Money. Of course. For a moment, my plan hit a brick wall. Then I remembered the little leather pouch Fipwick had so conveniently dropped. I focused on the inventory slot, and with a mental command, materialized the [Fipwick's Coin Pouch] directly into Korg's open palm. It appeared with a soft pop and a faint shimmer of blue light.
Korg stared at the pouch in his hand as if it were a venomous snake. He looked from the pouch to the sky, a confused "Moo?" escaping his lips.
The dwarf's eyes widened, first at the casual display of magic, then at the satisfying heft of the pouch as he snatched it from Korg's hand. He loosened the drawstring, peered inside, and his bushy eyebrows shot up. "Well, I'll be," he muttered, counting the coins. "Aye, this'll do. This'll be enough for the mace, and then some."
And that's where the entire social interaction went terribly wrong.
I watched the logic bomb detonate in Korg's simple mind in slow motion. Sky Spirit give shiny thing. Korg have shiny thing. Dwarf take shiny thing.
The conclusion was simple, direct, and utterly catastrophic.
Dwarf bad.
His happy, goofy expression vanished, replaced by a mask of pure, bovine fury. A low growl rumbled in his chest, and his nostrils flared. Before I could even think to flash a red skull, he brought his fist down on a nearby workbench, which was laden with half-finished horseshoes and tongs. The heavy oak table didn't just break; it exploded, sending a shower of splinters and hot metal tools clattering across the stone floor.
"By my father's beard!" the dwarf shrieked, scrambling backward, his professional composure utterly shattered.
Korg snatched the coin pouch back from the dwarf's stunned grasp. Then his eyes fell on the mace again. He reached out, plucked it from the rack, and in the same motion, dropped Pokey-Stick to the floor with a sad, metallic clatter.
My non-existent heart twinged. Goodbye, Pokey-Stick. You were a good weapon, but you were useless in our hands.
With the mace in one hand and the pouch in the other, Korg's gaze swept across the smithy and landed on a second item: a large, heavy-looking smithing hammer with a square head, leaning against the anvil. His eyes lit up—a new equation formed in his tiny brain, one of beautiful, idiotic simplicity.
One shiny stick good. Two shiny sticks… more good.
He needed his other hand free. Without a moment's hesitation, he dropped Fipwick's coin pouch onto the floor and snatched up the hammer.
Outside, the sound of shouting erupted, along with the tell-tale clank of armor. The guards had arrived.
I didn't have time for an existential meltdown. My QA instincts took over. Problem: User has initiated unprovoked PvP in a neutral zone. Solution: Execute escape protocol.
I painted a bright, pulsating golden arrow on the ground, leading out the back of the smithy, through a narrow alley, and towards a low section of the village wall. It was the most idiot-proof "GET OUT NOW" sign I could design.
Korg, now dual-wielding a mace and a blacksmith's hammer, saw the glowing path. Sky Spirit wanted him to go. He let out a final, triumphant roar at the terrified dwarf and charged, following my arrow with the blind obedience of a golden retriever.
We crashed through the alley, busted through the wooden wall with explosive ease thanks to his Might stat, and didn't stop until we were deep in the relative safety of the forest once more.
Only when the shouting from the village had faded did I allow myself to process the sheer, unmitigated disaster of the last ten minutes. I ran a mental post-mortem, trying to find a single positive outcome.
Then it hit me.
He got the mace. And a hammer. He left his old, crude spear behind. And he left the coin pouch, which the dwarf had confirmed was worth more than the weapon he'd taken. And the damage to the table… well, the leftover change would probably cover that, too.
In the most chaotic, roundabout way imaginable, he had… paid. He had entered a town, caused a panic, committed assault and property damage, and fled from the law, but in the end result of the transaction was financially sound.
A profound wave of exhaustion washed over my consciousness. What was the point of all my careful planning, my pictograms, my reinforcement training? His pure, unadulterated incompetence had achieved the desired outcome anyway, just with more screaming and collateral damage.
This wasn't a game I could guide him through. This was a force of nature I could only hope to redirect in the right direction.
[Mission Commerce: Failure.] The notification compiled itself in my mind, a bitter, final summary. Or maybe… maybe it was a success. I honestly couldn't tell anymore.
We spent the better part of a day hiding in a thicket, my consciousness a whirlwind of post-mission analysis and despair. Korg, meanwhile, was utterly delighted with his new acquisitions. He'd spent hours just staring at the mace and hammer, occasionally bashing them together to produce a loud, unmusical CLANG. He'd named them 'Smashy-Stick' and 'Boom-Stick.' The nuance was lost on me.
My initial assessment of the disastrous village visit was a categorical failure. But the more I processed the data, the more confused I became. We had committed several crimes, yet we had also successfully acquired two better weapons and, in a bizarre, roundabout fashion, provided fair compensation. My internal QA ticket for the event was a mess of contradictory notes:
Log: User initiated unprovoked combat. Severity: Critical.
Note: Combat encounter resulted in net positive resource acquisition. Re-evaluating severity.
Status: It's Complicated.
My primary concern was that we were now fugitives. A whole day had passed since we vandalised the blacksmith shop, and yet no guards came crashing through the forest. No hunting horns echoed in the distance. It was… quiet. My system senses, scanning the village from our hilltop perch, picked up no organized search parties. It seemed the dwarf, after finding the pouch of coins amidst the wreckage of his workbench, had decided that the terrifying bull-man who paid for goods and damages via demolition was a problem that had, for the most part, solved itself.
The problem that hadn't solved itself was Korg's stomach. The pre-mission boar steaks had long since been converted into energy, and the big red bar at the bottom of his vision was starting to flash insistently.
Hungry. The thought was a dull, persistent drumbeat in my mind.
Just as I was steeling myself for another mind-numbing boar hunt, a new scent drifted up from the valley. It wasn't the usual smell of woodsmoke and livestock. This was rich, sweet, and complex: baked apples, cinnamon, roasting meat, and sugary dough. My pre-loaded data identified it instantly. A festival.
Korg's head snapped up, his wide nostrils flaring. "Food," he rumbled, his voice filled with a reverence usually reserved for a sunrise. He started to lumber back towards the village.
No, no, no, you idiot, we're wanted men! Well, to be more specific a wanted Minotaur! I tried to warn him that this village is no longer safe, flashing a red, octagonal stop sign in his vision. He ignored it. The pull of a thousand calories was stronger than any UI I could design. Resigned, I could only prepare for the worst.
As we re-entered the village, the atmosphere was completely different. The main square was bustling with people, stalls, and music. And no one was screaming. In fact, after the initial jolt of seeing Korg return, the villagers seemed more curious than terrified. Whispers followed us, not of "monster," but of "the bull-lad," and "the one who wrecked Grendel's shop." It seemed our chaotic transaction had become the stuff of local legend overnight.
Korg, oblivious, was laser-focused on the source of the heavenly smell: a long trestle table piled high with pies of every description. A competition was in progress. A burly lumberjack and a wiry-looking halfling were stuffing their faces, cheered on by a small crowd. There was one empty seat.
To Korg's peanut-sized brain, this wasn't a contest. It was a buffet with an available chair. Before I could stop him, he marched over, sat down on the reinforced stool with a groan of protesting wood, and grabbed the nearest pie.
The crowd went silent. The lumberjack paused, a glob of cherry filling dripping from his beard. The event organizer, a portly man with a floral apron, looked like he was about to have a stroke.
Then Korg took a bite. And another. And another. He wasn't eating; he was inhaling. The pie vanished in seconds. He reached for another.
A child in the crowd giggled. Someone else let out a nervous chuckle. The lumberjack, seeing his lead vanish, frantically resumed eating. A new, absurd dynamic was born. The villagers, their fear supplanted by morbid curiosity, began to cheer. They weren't cheering for a competitor; they were cheering for a spectacle of nature.
I was mortified. My plan for subtle information gathering had devolved into a public eating spectacle. All I could do was monitor his stats.
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[Hunger: 15/50]
[STATUS EFFECT: PIE INFLUX]
[-5 Hunger]
[STATUS EFFECT: PIE INFLUX x2]
[-5 Hunger]
[STATUS EFFECT: PIE INFLUX x3]
[-5 Hunger]
[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: PIE-OUS CONQUEROR (UNCOMMON)]
You have won an eating contest through sheer gluttony. Grants Title: [The Gullet].
[TITLE EQUIPPED: THE GULLET]
Effect: +50% to Health and Stamina gained from food. -10% Hunger loss from food.
He won. He has eaten a dozen pies, defeated two seasoned competitors without realizing he was competing in a competition, and earned a title that would turn his endlessly empty stomach into a black hole, but at least he got a big buff.
Just as Korg was looking around for a thirteenth pie, a clear, amused voice cut through the cheers. "Well, it seems we have a new champion."
A young woman stepped forward. She was tall and slender, with auburn hair tied back in a practical braid and intelligent green eyes that held no fear, only a kind of fascinated mirth. My system tagged her instantly: [Lady Elara, Human - Lvl 15]. The Baron's daughter.
Okay, Ana. Critical moment. Do not let him eat the nobility.
She held up a small, blue silk ribbon. "Congratulations, sir… Minotaur. You have truly earned this." She approached Korg, who watched her with the placid curiosity of a cow watching a butterfly. Standing on her toes, she pinned the tiny ribbon to the thick fur on his chest. It looked utterly ridiculous, a tiny splash of blue on a mountain of brown.
Korg looked down at the ribbon, then back at her. A single, confused thought formed. Pretty.
"Korg… pretty?" he asked, his deep voice soft for the first time.
Lady Elara laughed, a bright, genuine sound that seemed to put the entire village at ease. That was the turning point. The fear was gone, replaced by a strange, communal affection. He wasn't a monster; he was their big, dumb, pie-eating champion.
The rest of the afternoon was a surreal dream. The village children, emboldened by Lady Elara's example, cautiously approached Korg. One brave little girl reached out and tugged on his tail. Korg just looked back at her, blinked, and let out a soft "Moo."
And my internal systems went into a full-blown euphoria.
This was it. The golden opportunity. He was accepted. He was a local celebrity. We could get quests, information, a safe place to rest—a real base of operations! But the entire fragile alliance rested on Korg not accidentally turning one of these tiny, fragile quest-dispensers into a fine paste. He had a Grace of 5 - Making him slightly clumsy. His feet were the size of dinner plates, and children surrounded him like seagulls seeing someone eating fries.
Don't move. Don't move. Don't move, I shrieked internally, trying to lock his motor functions through sheer force of will. A child was climbing on his back now. Another was trying to braid the fur on his legs. He was their living, breathing, cheese-scented jungle gym. I was living in a nightmare. Every twitch of his muscles, every shift of his weight, sent a fresh jolt of terror through my code.
Just as I was about to overload from the stress, the inevitable happened. His Minotaur's fast hunger gain wore off the effects of a dozen pies.
Hungry.
The timing couldn't be worse. I have used up all the raw meat in the inventory. I needed to get him a new controlled food source before he decided the children looked like appetizers. My senses scanned the square and found it: a bakery, its window filled with loaves of bread. Safe. Simple.
I projected a pictogram of a steak directly over the bakery door. Food. Go there.
When Korg saw the sign, he then gently shooed the children off him, grunted an apology, and lumbered to his feet. He started walking towards the bakery.
Yes! It's working! A wave of relief washed over me.
He took a step. Then another. Then his massive hoof came down on a greasy patch of cobblestone where a sausage vendor had spilled a skillet of oil.
There was no traction. His near-average Grace provided no recourse. His seven hundred pounds of momentum had nowhere to go but forward and sideways. His arms pinwheeled in a comical, desperate attempt to regain balance. He slid, spun, and, completely missing the bakery, crashed through the flimsy wooden door of the quiet, unassuming tailor's shop next to the bakery.
My sensory feed was a chaotic mess of splintering wood and tearing fabric. When my perspective finally stabilized, Korg was lying in a heap on the floor, surrounded by bolts of cloth, chunks of wood, and overturned mannequins.
And we were not alone.
Standing around a table in the back of the shop were three men, their faces a mask of pure shock and horror. The table was not covered in thread and needles. It was covered in maps of the Baron's keep, detailed guard patrol routes, and a half-finished letter sealed with the Baron's own family crest—worn by his younger brother.
My consciousness froze, the implications hitting me with the force of a physical blow. We had, with all the subtlety of a meteor strike, stumbled directly into a coup d'état.
The silence in the tailor's shop was thick enough to be a physical presence, broken only by the faint, cheerful music of the festival outside. Three pairs of eyes were locked on us, a mixture of pure, undiluted shock and the dawning horror of men whose multi-layered, treasonous plan had just been interrupted by a seven-hundred-pound act of God.
My QA brain, which had been idling in a state of mortified panic, snapped into overdrive. This wasn't a social blunder anymore. This was an active, high-stakes, time-sensitive quest trigger. We hadn't just stumbled into a back room; we had fallen face-first into the server's main plotline. The evidence was right there on the table, a buffet of conspiracy.
Log the data, Ana. Secure the evidence.
The man I tagged as the leader—taller, dressed in finer clothes, and carrying himself with an air of slimy arrogance, my system identified as [Lord Valerius, Human - Lvl 12]—was the first to recover. His shock curdled into venomous fury.
"What in the nine hells are you?" he hissed, his hand dropping to the pommel of a decorative, but clearly functional, rapier at his belt. His two companions, a pair of grim-faced thugs tagged as [Conspirator Thug x2, Human - Lvl 8], drew crude daggers.
There was no time for pictograms. No time for a plan. There was only time for one, single, desperate action. My consciousness latched onto the inventory module, the most powerful and esoteric tool in my arsenal. With a frantic, sweeping mental command, I targeted the entire surface of the table.
Select all. Add to inventory.
For the conspirators, it must have looked like a terrifying act of sorcery. The maps of the Baron's keep, the detailed guard patrol schedules, and the damning letter with the broken seal didn't just vanish. They dissolved, shimmering into motes of pale blue light before winking out of existence entirely. One moment, a table full of treason. The next, a bare wooden surface.
Lord Valerius froze, his hand half-drawn. "The papers… where did they go? Did it eat them?"
The thugs didn't wait for an answer. "Kill the beast!" one of them roared, and they charged.
Korg, who was just beginning to push himself up from the wreckage, saw two angry men with short, pointy sticks running at him. His simple brain, unburdened by concepts like espionage or political intrigue, came to a very simple conclusion.
Men hit Korg. Korg hit back.
The first thug's dagger glanced off Korg's chest with a dull tink, as if he'd tried to stab a leather-wrapped boulder. His Aegis of 21 wasn't just a number; it was a physical law. The man stared at his blade, then at Korg, his expression twisted in disbelief, as though reality itself had betrayed him. That moment of hesitation was all Korg needed. He swung 'Boom-Stick'—the mace—in a mighty horizontal arc. It connected with the thug's chest not with a crunch, but with a deep, resonant THUMP. The man flew backward, crashed at the already weakened wall of the shop, and landed in a heap amidst a display of colorful hats outside, buried by chunks that once were a wall.
The second thug tried to be clever, ducking low to stab at Korg's leg. The dagger scraped harmlessly against his thick hide. Korg looked down, more annoyed than hurt, and brought 'Smashy-Stick'—the smithing hammer—down on the man's back. There was a pained grunt, and the second conspirator crumpled in a small crater in the floor, groaning.
Lord Valerius's aristocratic face had gone white as a sheet. His two hired muscles had been neutralized in under five seconds. He did the only sensible thing a cowardly noble could do: he turned and fled, bursting out through the new hole in the wall and into the festival square, screaming. "Help! Guards! A monster has gone berserk!"
Korg saw the angry man running. His simple, objective-focused mind latched on. Angry man running. Must chase prey.
He charged in pursuit, his massive hooves pounding on the floorboards, leaving the ruined tailor shop behind. We burst back into the bright sunlight and chaos of the festival. Villagers screamed and scattered as a seven-foot-tall Minotaur, dual-wielding a mace and a hammer, chased the Baron's brother through the crowded square. Stalls were overturned. Cages of chickens exploded in a flurry of feathers. It was a scene of pure, unmitigated pandemonium.
My internal monologue was a single, sustained shriek of despair. No, no, no, you idiot, stop chasing the quest villain! You look like the villain instead!
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The chase was short and disastrous. Korg, with his small Grace was slow, but with his high Vigor, was tireless, while Lord Valerius was quickly running out of breath and real estate. The chase ended, as if directed by a cruel playwright, directly in front of the main dais where the pie-eating contest had been held. Standing there, their faces a mixture of confusion and horror, were the Baron and his daughter, Elara.
From their perspective, the scene was damning. The friendly, pie-eating bull-man had suddenly gone on a rampage, destroyed two shops, and was now attempting to murder the Baron's own brother in broad daylight.
"Guards!" the Baron bellowed, his face crimson with rage. "Subdue that beast! Use lethal force if you must!"
Lady Elara looked on, her green eyes wide with shock and a deep, cutting disappointment that somehow felt worse than the Baron's anger.
In seconds, we were surrounded. A dozen guards in leather and steel formed a circle, their spear-tips all pointed at Korg's chest. The festive music had died. The only sound was the panicked breathing of the crowd and the steely scrape of armor. Korg stopped, utterly confused. He looked at the angry men in front of him, then at the ring of pointy sticks, then back at the sky, a low, questioning "Moo?" rumbling in his chest.
We were trapped. I was voiceless, a ghost in a machine on death row. Lord Valerius, hiding behind the guard line, was already spinning his tale. "It went mad, brother! Attacked me for no reason! It's a monster, a mindless killer!"
This was it. Game over. A critical mission failure caused by a series of escalating, statistically improbable accidents. My user had managed to put himself into a no-win scenario.
Unless…
I couldn't talk. I couldn't explain. But I could show. My only way out was to create an even bigger, more inexplicable scene than the one we were already in.
With a final, desperate surge of will, I opened the inventory and executed the only 2 commands that mattered.
Select all. Drop.
A brilliant cascade of pale blue light erupted from Korg's body. The air shimmered, and then, as if from nowhere, dozens of items materialized in the air around him. [Boar Hide], [Boar Tusk], and other monster loot, but most importantly, maps, scrolls, and letters fluttered down like strange, rectangular snow, landing at the feet of the stunned guards.
The entire square fell into a dead silence. The guards hesitated, their spears wavering. Lord Valerius's triumphant smirk froze on his face.
Lady Elara, ever the sharpest person in the room, was the first to move. Her eyes fixed on the letter that had landed closest to her—the one with her family's crest on its broken seal. She knelt, her expression one of intense curiosity, and picked it up. As she read, her face went through a rapid, devastating transformation: from confusion, to shock, to a pale, tight-lipped fury.
Without a word, she walked to her father and handed him the letter. The Baron snatched it, his eyes blazing with anger at the interruption. He read the first line. Then the second. The rage in his face did not lessen, but its target shifted entirely. The crimson flush drained away, replaced by an ashen pallor of profound betrayal.
He slowly raised his head, his gaze falling not on Korg, but on his own brother. "You would plot against your own blood?" his voice was a low, dangerous growl. "You would sell my people to the Crimson Hand mercenaries?"
Lord Valerius stumbled backward, his face a mask of pure terror. "Lies! Forgeries! That beast planted them!"
But it was too late. The truth, delivered by the world's most incompetent courier, was undeniable. The Baron pointed a trembling finger at his brother.
"Seize him," he commanded, his voice shaking with restrained violence. "All of you, Seize Him."
The guards, no longer confused, turned as one, their spears now directed at a new, far more deserving target.
A wave of relief so powerful it felt like a system reboot washed over me. He'd done it. My glorious, thick-skulled, walking disaster of a user had succeeded. Not through skill, not through intelligence, but through the sheer, brute-force application of his own incompetence, amplified by a luck stat that was clearly bending the rules of reality. He didn't clear a quest. He fell into the quest reward.
The Baron turned to Korg, who was still standing placidly amidst the scattered evidence, occasionally nudging a scroll with his hoof. The old man's face was a complex mixture of gratitude, awe, and utter bewilderment.
"You… you saved us," he said, his voice heavy with emotion. "You have saved my family."
Two notifications, crisp and beautiful, compiled themselves in my vision.
[SECRET QUEST COMPLETE: A CONSPIRACY UNCOVERED]
[+1500 XP]
[+500 SPP]
[LEVEL UP! HOST HAS REACHED LEVEL 4!]
[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: THE BLUNDERING HERO (LEGENDARY)]
You have averted a major crisis entirely by accident. Grants Special Title: [Accidental Hero of Silvercreek].
Korg just blinked at the Baron, completely unaware that he had just graduated from village menace to legendary hero in the span of five minutes.
The Baron took a deep breath, his voice booming across the now-celebratory square. "This creature is no monster! He is the Hero of Silvercreek! Tomorrow, we shall hold a banquet in his honor!"
The crowd erupted in a deafening cheer. I looked at my user, the newly-crowned hero, who had just spotted a dropped apple on the ground and was now happily munching on it.
This wasn't crunch time anymore. This was a fever dream. And somehow, we were winning.
My digital brain is too tired, I can't, I just can't. If I want to remain sane, I need to disable my higher brain functions and roll with this insanity.