Being an infant is an absolute, massive middle finger to the brain of a twenty-two-year-old pro gamer.
A full week had passed since Vavian was violently shoved into this ash-covered hellhole of a world. For seven agonizing days, he had experienced firsthand just how sadistic the penalties of the 'Trash Hard' difficulty truly were. His body wasn't just a regular baby's body; it was a fragile, pathetic vessel bearing a forty percent physical stat penalty right out of the gate.
Morning arrived—or at least, the sky turned a slightly lighter shade of depressing gray. Vavian tried to roll over to stretch his back, which was aching from sleeping on a pile of coarse, filthy rags. He gathered every ounce of strength in his tiny limbs, twisted his hips, and pushed his elbow against the cold stone floor.
A warning immediately flashed in the corner of his vision.
[Warning: Stamina Critical! Muscle density is insufficient to support body weight.]
Vavian's head instantly slammed back down onto the rags with a dull thud. He gasped for air as if he had just sprinted a fucking marathon. He cursed vehemently in his mind. Just lifting his arm felt like trying to bench-press a goddamn boulder. If he were back in his cramped room in Depok, he would have smashed his keyboard into pieces by now.
But this was Etherion. Rage wouldn't magically buff his stats.
He stared up at the gaping hole in the ruined tower's ceiling. The eternal gray ash continued to drift down, slipping through the cracks and coating his throat with a dry, suffocating itch. The silence in the Revista ruins was deafening. It wasn't the silence of peace; it was the heavy, suffocating silence of absolute despair.
"Drink a little more, Vavian... my sweet child..."
A chipped wooden cup nudged his tiny lips. Vavian rolled his eyes and looked at Morra. His heart sank slightly. His mother looked significantly worse than she did on day one. Her cheekbones jutted out sharply against her deathly pale skin. The dark circles under her eyes were now practically bruised, indicating she hadn't slept a single wink in days.
The liquid Morra poured into his mouth wasn't nutritious breast milk. It was a filthy mixture of filtered rainwater and boiled wild roots. It tasted like absolute garbage—a bland, earthy bitterness that coated his tongue and made his stomach churn.
Vavian knew exactly why she was feeding him this trash. She was starving. His System Sight never lied. The translucent screen popped up the moment his gaze locked onto her.
> NAME: MORRA
> CONDITION: Severe Malnutrition, Critical Mental Exhaustion, Dehydration.
> HP: 21/100 (Deteriorating at a rate of 1 HP per 24 hours)
Vavian swallowed the bitter liquid down to the last drop without making a single fuss. In his previous life, he would have spat this shit out and ordered fast food. But now, his cold, calculating gamer logic took over. If he cried and refused to eat, Morra would panic. Panic meant elevated heart rates, which meant burning through her already depleted calories and energy.
As a master tactician, Vavian knew that keeping your primary Healer unit alive and sane was the absolute number one priority in any survival scenario. You don't grief your own support player.
Heavy, dragging footsteps echoed from the entrance of the ruined tower. The sound of rusted metal clanking against stone shattered the dead silence of the room.
A tall, imposing figure trudged toward the dying embers of the fire pit. The man had dark, ashen skin with a rough texture that looked like cracked stone. He wore tattered, rusted leather armor that barely covered the fresh, weeping gashes on his torso. A single, jagged horn curved from his forehead, while the left side of his skull was flat—the other horn had been snapped off in some brutal fight long ago.
Vavian's System Sight instantly scanned the newcomer.
> NAME: VARG
> RACE: DEMON (Variant: Gargoyle Blood)
> LEVEL: 18
> CLASS: Vanguard / Last Soldier of Revista
> HP: 30/100 (Condition: External Bleeding, Starvation)
> DISPOSITION TOWARD VAVIAN: NEUTRAL (Protective only out of absolute loyalty to Morra)
Varg dropped to one knee with a heavy grunt right next to Morra. The massive man set a broken spear on the ground and bowed his head deeply. "Lady Morra," he greeted. His voice sounded like two boulders grinding against each other. He glanced briefly at Vavian before returning his gaze to the dying fire.
"What is the situation outside, Varg?" Morra asked, her voice trembling. Her cracked hands gently wiped a drop of the bitter root water from Vavian's chin using the frayed sleeve of her dress.
Varg remained silent for a long, agonizing moment. His jaw clenched tightly. "The ash storms in the northern Vorreth Wasteland are getting worse. Visibility drops to zero past fifty paces. But that isn't the main issue." Varg swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Scouting parties from the Beastman faction have been spotted patrolling the borders of the Black Forest. I saw tracks... Horned Wolf clan. We can no longer hunt or forage towards the east. It's suicide."
Morra's hand stopped moving. The chill in the ruined tower suddenly felt ten times colder. The other eleven adults huddled in the dark corners of the room slowly lifted their heads. Their hollow, empty eyes were now filled with a visceral, paralyzing terror.
"Then... what about our food supplies?" Morra's voice was barely a whisper. "How much longer can we hold out before we have to migrate?"
Varg's massive fists trembled as he punched the stone floor in frustration. "The bitter roots, dried moss, and the few mutated ground rats we managed to catch... it's only enough for two days. And that's only if we cut everyone's rations in half."
Total silence reclaimed the Korreth Tower. Not a single person complained. Nobody cried or screamed at the heavens. These twelve remaining souls were too exhausted to even muster the energy for despair. Death felt like an old friend waiting patiently at the door.
From the safety of Morra's lap, Vavian watched the entire exchange with terrifying focus. His brain, operating on an IQ stat of 88 and thousands of hours of min-maxing strategy games, spun into overdrive. He analyzed every variable on the board like a grandmaster staring down a checkmate.
Two days. This pathetic excuse for a kingdom would be completely wiped out in less than forty-eight hours. Long before the Beastmen or Human heroes even found them, starvation would claim his entire army. And he, an infant with an Endurance stat below twenty, would be the very first to die the moment that bitter root water stopped flowing.
Vavian closed his eyes, concentrating his mind to summon the hidden system interface.
*Open Quest Log,* Vavian commanded in his mind.
A blue, translucent screen flared to life behind his closed eyelids.
> [Main Quest Unlocked: The Brink of Extinction]
> DIFFICULTY: A-Rank
> DESCRIPTION: The Kingdom of Revista is hanging by a thread. As the heir to the Demon Lord's bloodline, your subjects are staring into the bottomless abyss of starvation. The toxic ash of Vorreth refuses to yield life to outcasts.
> OBJECTIVE: Ensure the 12 remaining subjects do not die of starvation within the next 3 days.
> REWARDS: Unlock [Beginner's Inventory], 50 EXP, 1 Random Gacha Ticket (Tier F - C).
> FAILURE PENALTY: Mass Starvation, Kingdom Morale drops to 0, PERMANENT GAME OVER.
Vavian's eyes narrowed into slits. The rewards were incredibly juicy for an early-game setup. Unlocking a limitless inventory and getting a gacha pull was the perfect foundation for his snowball strategy. However, the objective was fundamentally impossible on paper. How the fuck was a physically disabled infant, who couldn't even lift his own goddamn head, supposed to feed a dozen grown adults in a barren, toxic wasteland surrounded by hostile mobs?
There had to be something he missed. Vavian understood the architectural psychology of game developers better than anyone. No matter how delusional or sadistic the creator of this world was, there was no such thing as an absolutely unsolvable early-game difficulty curve. There had to be a loophole. There had to be a first-aid kit provided for the player, no matter how small or hidden.
Vavian's eyes darted across every inch of his system interface. He scanned every menu, every line of text, until his gaze finally locked onto the bottom right corner of the screen. There, blending almost perfectly with the transparent background, was a tiny, faded icon shaped like a wooden chest. The UI designers had intentionally made it dark gray to make it practically invisible.
Vavian smirked inwardly. *You sneaky bastards.* Of course. The 'Trash Hard' difficulty was designed to torture the player psychologically. The system wasn't going to give him a flashing notification or a bright neon arrow pointing to his beginner's pack. It intentionally hid it, hoping a panicked, overwhelmed player would miss it and starve to death like a moron.
*Claim,* Vavian ordered ruthlessly.
The system window immediately displayed an animation of the chest opening, accompanied by a faint, pathetic golden glow.
> [Opening Beginner's Gift Box (Trash Hard Penalty Applied)...]
> [WARNING: Most basic survival items have been confiscated by the System due to Difficulty limits.]
> [You acquired: Active Skill - Seeker's Eye (Level 1)]
> [You acquired: 10 Copper Coins]
Vavian's inner smirk widened. *Confiscated items? Whatever, go fuck yourselves, devs.* He immediately focused on the description of his brand-new skill. This was his first real weapon in this garbage world.
> [Skill: Seeker's Eye (Level 1)]
> DESCRIPTION: The survival intuition of a Demon Lord awakening prematurely.
> EFFECT: Allows the user to perceive consumable materials, usable items, or traces of magical energy within a 10-meter radius for 10 seconds. Detected objects will emit a bright green aura. This aura is completely hidden from the sight of normal creatures.
> COST: 5 Stamina.
> COOLDOWN: 1 Hour.
A ten-meter radius. A hilariously pathetic range if used in an open field or a forest. But for Vavian, who was currently trapped inside an enclosed, circular ruined tower, ten meters meant he could scan the entire room, right through the rubble and collapsed stone walls.
However, there was a massive catch. The activation cost was five stamina points. For a normal baby, losing five stamina might just make them a bit sleepy. But for Vavian, whose Endurance stat was critically crippled, sacrificing five points of stamina meant dancing on the razor's edge of passing out, or worse, going into a coma.
Still, he had zero options. He looked at Varg, who was still kneeling with a face full of despair, and then at Morra, who was hugging him tightly as if trying to shield him from the cruelty of the world. He needed to prove that in this rotting room, there was still something left to salvage.
Vavian took a deep breath, bracing his mind for the incoming physical backlash.
*Activate Seeker's Eye.*
In a fraction of a second, Vavian's vision shifted. The dreary, gray-tinted world of the tower was suddenly overlaid with a sharp, digital blue filter.
One second passed. Nothing around the fire pit.
Three seconds passed. The ragged clothes on the demons held zero value.
Five seconds. His head began to throb violently. His breathing hitched. The systemic energy drain was rapidly cannibalizing his tiny body's reserves.
Eight seconds. Vavian rolled his eyes to their absolute limit, staring toward the darkest corner of the room where a massive pile of collapsed stone pillars lay. It was debris that looked impossible for a single person to move.
*Bingo.*
Right beneath the largest chunk of stone, Vavian saw a piercing, bright green glow. The light radiated from beneath the dirt, highlighting a hidden crevice. That pile of rubble wasn't just random destruction; it was perfectly concealing an old, underground storage hatch.
Ten seconds passed. The system automatically deactivated.
Vavian gasped softly. An overwhelming wave of exhaustion slammed into his chest like a physical blow. His head spun wildly, black spots dancing in his vision, but his mind remained razor-sharp. He had found the target location. Now came the hardest part of the plan: how the hell does a one-week-old infant tell a giant Gargoyle-blood demon to go dig up some rocks in the corner of the room?
He couldn't speak. He couldn't point his finger. If he just cried while looking at the rocks, Morra would assume he had a stomachache and try to rock him to sleep. He had to use a much more manipulative, tactical approach to force Varg to go over there.
Vavian focused the last remaining shreds of his energy into his left arm. He waited patiently until Morra slightly loosened her grip to reach for a piece of firewood. At the exact perfect frame, Vavian swung his tiny arm in a seemingly random, spastic motion.
The back of his hand collided perfectly with the empty wooden cup resting near Morra's thigh.
*Clack!*
The wooden cup fell onto the slightly slanted stone floor and rolled rapidly away from the fire pit, heading straight toward the massive pile of rubble in the dark corner. The cup came to a halt right at the base of the collapsed pillars.
"Ah, the cup..." Morra sighed exhaustedly, preparing to stand up and retrieve it.
But before his mother could rise, Vavian unleashed his ultimate weapon. He took a deep breath, twisted his tiny body to face the direction the cup had rolled, and let out the loudest, most agonizing wail his little lungs could produce.
"Oaaakkk! Oaaakkk!"
He fake-cried while thrashing his legs slightly, spreading his fingers toward the dark corner as if he desperately, stubbornly wanted that specific cup back and would not shut the fuck up until he got it.
"Shh... quiet now, my sweet. Mother will get it," Morra pleaded, her voice laced with panic, terrified that Vavian's loud cries would attract the roaming Beastmen outside.
Varg, consumed by guilt for bringing bad news and failing as a vanguard, immediately stood up, intercepting Morra. "Allow me, Lady Morra. Please, save your strength."
The massive warrior stomped over to the dark corner of the room. He bent his large frame, reaching his rough, stone-like hand down to pick up the wooden cup resting against the ruined floor.
However, as Varg pulled the cup away, his thick fingers accidentally brushed against the cracked tiles beneath the pillar. A very faint, chilling draft of air seeped out from the cracks. It wasn't the smell of volcanic ash; it was the distinct, musty odor of damp wood and old, enclosed earth.
Varg's dull eyes suddenly widened. His instincts as a seasoned vanguard flared to life. He dropped the wooden cup, pressed his ear against the cold floor, and began frantically tracing the gaps between the massive stone debris with his hands.
"There's... there's a draft here," Varg muttered, his voice trembling between disbelief and shock. He snapped his head toward Morra, then stared intensely at the giant rocks. "Lady Morra! There is a hollow space underneath this rubble!"
Safe in Morra's arms, Vavian slowly ceased his crying. His tiny lips curled upwards once more, forming a sinister, victorious smirk.
*Hook, line, and sinker.* Phase one of his master plan had been executed flawlessly.
***
[Nymphaearoot the Author]: Hope you enjoy reading! If you like it, please add it to your library and let me know your favorite moments in the comments