The voyage to Volantis hit different this time around. Last trip? I was just cargo. Some half-crazed fucker dragged off a cursed rock, barely alive, mumbling nonsense. Pirates poked at me like I was a weird bug.
Now? They acted like I was their damn king.
Eyes darted away when I glanced over. One twitch from my hand, and some deckhand scrambled to fetch whatever. Captain's cabin? Mine without a word. Platters of half-decent grub slid under my nose first—salty fish stew, crusty bread that didn't taste like boot leather. Water? They boiled it twice, skimmed the scum, served it in a tin mug that actually shone. Hell, even their voices dropped low, words dripping with that mix of awe and "don't piss this guy off" fear.
Word of the island massacre had spread like rot in a wound. I was the legend now. The ghost who walked out of hell with bending powers and a body count.
But the **system**? That smug bastard stayed quiet.
***
### **[Fame & Points]**
**Available Points:** **565**
***
I kept checking, like a junkie twitching for his next fix. Nothing. Hours dragged into a full goddamn day. Still 565, mocking me from the blue glow.
Tried the usual hustle. Spun yarns for the crew during meals—embellished the shit out of 'em. Persia's ancient kings rising from graves. Divine lightning smiting the faithless. That cursed island where the sea itself spat out monsters, but believers got blessings like manna from the sky. Polished bullshit, delivered with fire in my eyes, gestures wide enough to hook 'em.
Normally? Points would've jumped. Fresh ears, wide eyes, whispers turning to prayers.
Not this time. Barely budged.
**567.**
Then zilch.
"Fuckin' figures," I muttered to the empty cabin, kicking at a crate. It wasn't about the words anymore. System wanted **impact**. Real shit. New converts shitting their pants in belief. Not this recycled echo chamber on a leaky boat.
Frustration clawed in my gut, hot and ugly. I'd pace the deck at night, salt wind whipping my face, staring at the stars like they owed me answers. Every morning, same ritual: summon the panel, watch those numbers sit there dead. Patience? Wore thin as a whore's promise.
Third day in, I lost it. "Screw this noise."
Flicked open the gacha menu. Thumb hovered. "One spin. Why not?"
***
### **[Gacha Result]**
**Soap ×1**
I snorted. A plain white bar materialized in my palm, smooth and innocent. Smelled faintly of lye and herbs—clean in a world that reeked of brine, unwashed bodies, and old blood.
"What the—?" I hauled ass to the rail, arm cocked back to yeet it into the waves. Mid-swing, I froze.
This tub was a floating sewer. Salt crusted every rope. Sweat glued clothes to skin. Grime under nails like it'd grown roots. Soap here? Not junk. **Luxury**. Captain probably hadn't seen real soap since he sold his soul.
I pocketed it, almost gentle. "Alright, you sneaky prick. One more shot."
***
### **[Gacha Result]**
**1,000 USD**
A crisp stack of green bills appeared. Benjamin Franklins staring up at me.
I barked a laugh. Then it built—chest heaving, gut clenching. "AHAHAHAHA! One *thousand dollars*?"
Doubled over the crate, tears streaming, wiping snot on my sleeve. "System, you trolling asshole—what'd I do in a past life? Steal your lunch money?"
Back home, this bought groceries for a month, a decent jacket, maybe grease a few palms. Here? Fancy paper for wiping asses. Useless as tits on a fish.
Breath ragged, I straightened. "One more. Make it count."
***
### **[Gacha Result]**
**Skill Acquired: Energy Conversion**
Laughter died fast. Description bloomed in my head like a fever dream:
> *A versatile skill that enables the conversion of any energy source—mana, stamina, chakra, elemental energy—into another required energy type for skill activation.*
Cabin went dead quiet. I slumped into the captain's creaky chair, mind spinning wild.
Earthbending always drained me weird. One fight, pure muscle burn—like I'd run a marathon. Next, it sucked the chakra dry, leaving me hollow. Island overkill? Crashed me into sleep like a club to the skull.
Stamina? Mana? Some qi bullshit? Hell if I knew. No fancy stats screen for me. No HP bars, STR 99, none of that gamey crap. Just raw power... and the crash.
But this? **Game-changer**.
Grab a mana-hungry spell someday? Convert stamina. Divine power ritual? Swap in chakra. Alien energy from some eldritch fuckery? Bend it to fit.
No mismatches. No dead ends. Pure adaptability.
"Future me's sending thank-yous," I whispered, grinning crooked.
Two spins left. Save 'em for a rainy day? Nah. Impulse won.
Dug out a dented copper coin from my pocket. "Heads: hold off. Tails: spin now."
Flick. Spin. Clink—landed tails on the scarred wood.
"Of *course*." Grin widened. "Gimme both. Double or nothing."
***
### **[Gacha Results]**
**1. Weakness Removal Card**
**2. Template: Lucifer Morningstar**
...
My brain short-circuited. Blinked hard. Blinked again.
"Ehehe... heh... *holy shit*."
Lucifer. Morningstar. *That* fallen angel badass. Not the full god-king package—no throne of hell, no silver tongue forcing knees to bend, no soul-raping charisma overwrite.
Just the **bones** of him.
Nerfed lucy
Description unrolled, hands shaking as I scanned:
- Body forged for energy loads. No bursting veins, no meltdown from power surges.
- Soul armored against rot—corruption slides off, domination bounces back, madness? Laughable.
- Existence-level flex: adapt to any realm, any rule-set, like water through cracks.
Even thogh these are joke infront of lucifer
It is op for me
But only sadness is my angel wings is not here in this package. Those iconic, shimmering wings—symbols of rebellion, flight through the void, slicing heavens like paper. Teased me with the name, then yanked 'em away. Left me grounded, clawless in the sky department.
First template dumped chakra and a tanky frame on me. This? Cranked to god-tier foundations.
"
Chakra started it. Earthbending layered on. Conversion patched the gaps. Now this.
Not tools anymore. **Architecture**.
Soft chuckle escaped. "Alright, you cryptic fuck. Message received."
Bells clanged outside—harsh, excited.
"Volantis dead ahead! Reefs in sight!"
I rose slow, smoothed the rumpled shirt clinging to my skin, flexed fingers that felt... heavier. Readier.
Cracked a smile, sharp as a blade.
Free Cities wouldn't know what hit 'em. A walking myth, stacked with devil's bones, bending the world to kneel.
***