The translucent blue screen shimmered in the misty air, hovering silently amidst the carnage of the forest clearing. Elian stared at it, his heart rate slowly returning to a rhythm that didn't threaten cardiac arrest.
"Okay," he exhaled, his breath visible in the cold morning air. "Let's see just how screwed I am."
The interface expanded, organizing itself into rows of clean, white text that looked disturbingly like a spreadsheet. It was the standard RPG layout—Name, Class, Level, Attributes—but the numbers filling the fields made Elian wince.
[Name: Elian Vance]
[Role: The Editor]
[Level: 2 (EXP: 50/200)]
[HP: 45/45]
[Ink: 90/100]
[Attributes]
* Strength: 4 (Note: An average human villager has 8. You struggle to lift heavy groceries.)
* Agility: 5 (Note: You run with the grace of a toddler.)
* Vitality: 4 (Note: A stiff breeze might kill you.)
* Intelligence: 18 (Note: High. Cynicism aids analysis.)
* Luck: ??? (Error: Variable fluctuates wildly.)
"The system is roasting me," Elian muttered, offended. "I'm a literary critic, not a barbarian. My strength is in my pen, not my biceps."
He glared at the Strength: 4. It explained why the rusty dagger felt heavy in his hand and why his legs felt like jelly after a short sprint. In this world of dragons and superhuman knights, he was statistically insignificant. If he got hit, he died. It was that simple.
He looked at the Available Stat Points: 5.
"I should put it in Strength," he mused aloud. "Try to become a balanced build."
He hovered his finger over the Strength icon, then stopped. A balanced build was garbage in a high-stakes scenario. If he added five points to Strength, he would have 9—barely above a peasant. He still wouldn't be able to block a goblin's club.
"No," Elian decided, his eyes narrowing. "I can't out-muscle this world. I have to out-think it. But to out-think it, I need to survive long enough to speak."
He dumped all five points into Agility.
A sudden warmth flooded his legs, like a shot of caffeine hitting his bloodstream. The heaviness in his boots vanished. He wasn't suddenly a ninja, but he felt lighter, quicker. His Agility was now 10—slightly above average.
"Run fast, die last," he quoted his own gaming philosophy.
Next, his eyes drifted to the most confusing stat: Ink.
He tapped on it.
[Ink: The resource required to use Editorial Authority. Regenerates by discovering plot points, fixing narrative errors, or consuming Lore Items. Current regeneration rate: 1 Ink per hour.]
"So, mana," Elian translated. "But instead of drinking blue potions, I have to find... plot points?"
It was a mechanic that rewarded curiosity over grinding. It suited him. He wasn't a grinder; he was a reader.
He closed the window with a swipe of his hand. The blue light faded, leaving him alone in the grey woods once more. The adrenaline of the fight had worn off, replaced by a gnawing hunger and the terrifying realization of his solitude. He had a map, a dagger he barely knew how to use, and a destination: The Capital.
He unfurled the map he had looted from the chest. The Capital was hundreds of miles away. Between him and the safety of the city walls lay the Forest of Forgotten Tropes, the River of Cliches, and the Mountains of Excessive Exposition.
"I'm going to die out here," Elian whispered to the silent trees.
He needed protection. He needed a party. In every RPG, the squishy mage or support character always paired up with a tank—someone big, dumb, and durable to take the hits while the smart one did the work.
Arthur was supposed to be that person, but Arthur was currently fertilizing the mud in the village square.
Crunch.
The sound of a heavy boot snapping a twig echoed from the path ahead.
Elian froze, gripping his dagger. He ducked behind a large fern, peering through the leaves.
A figure was walking down the road, coming from the direction of the deep forest. It wasn't a goblin, and it wasn't a wolf. It was a man encased in shining, silver plate armor. He looked magnificent, like he had stepped off the cover of a romance novel. A longsword hung at his hip, and a shield emblazoned with a golden lion was strapped to his back.
"A Knight?" Elian's eyes lit up. "A high-level NPC? Thank the Author."
He was about to step out and call for help when he noticed something odd. The knight wasn't marching with dignity. He was looking over his shoulder nervously, tiptoeing through the mud, and—if Elian wasn't mistaken—the glorious hero was whimpering softly to himself.