At a construction site, a burly man with a shaved head and an unkempt beard, dressed in paint-stained clothes, hurls a large wooden plank towards a boy who looks no older than fourteen. The boy catches the plank with some difficulty, his thin arms trembling under the weight, and carefully adds it to a growing pile nearby. Just as he glances back at the man helping him, a sharp yell echoes from the upper floor of the half-built house. Before he can react, several stone blocks tumble down from above, crashing onto him.

In the fleeting moments as his body succumbs to the impact, his vision blurs. A light appears before him, radiant and pure. Hope stirs within him, and he reaches out, not physically, but with the last remnants of his will. The light, however, is not salvation—it shifts into the silhouette of a person descending into view as his consciousness fades into darkness.

A dimly lit wooden cabin, filled with the scent of herbs and damp wood, serves as a strange sanctuary. A frail old woman, clad in peculiar robes adorned with pouches of dried plants and odd tools, tends to the unconscious boy lying on an improvised stretcher. She glances at the doorway, where the broad figure of the shaved-headed man looms, his face tense and brooding.

"The boy is weak," the woman mutters, her tone sharp and dismissive. "He won’t survive. We’ve wasted enough resources on this lost cause." She turns back to her work, her wrinkled hands deftly mixing a pungent salve.

The man, Balfir, furrows his brow, his rough features set in determination. "Quit being so bitter, Gretta. Arthur’s just a child. He has no family, no friends, no one. He doesn’t deserve this."

Gretta looks over at the boy with disinterest, as if he were no more significant than a broken tool. "One more day. If he doesn’t show signs of improvement, we’ll prepare the burial. And everything I’ve spent comes out of your pocket."

Balfir’s jaw tightens, resentment flaring in his eyes. "What I make on that cursed site barely keeps me alive. You know I can’t afford this."

Gretta doesn’t even look at him, her voice cold and final. "Not my problem. You brought him here, you pay the price. Now get out of my way—I’ve got work to do."

With a frustrated growl, Balfir slams the door as he leaves, the sound reverberating through the cabin. The noise stirs the boy on the stretcher, and one of his fingers twitches faintly.

Trapped in a body that doesn’t feel like his own, in a mind devoid of memories, the boy begins to panic. His thoughts race, chaotic and disoriented.

"Where am I? Who am I? What language is this? Is that... a wooden ceiling? Why can’t I move my body? My head hurts. My chest hurts. Everything hurts."

Then, a faint chime rings out, as if in response to his turmoil.

System Notification

Skill acquired: Pain Resistance

A fragment of memory surfaces, hazy and fleeting—something about the cosmos and a trade of points—but it fades before he can grasp its meaning. The pain lingers, relentless, though it begins to subside ever so slightly.

Unable to sleep, his thoughts search desperately for distraction, something to focus on other than the gnawing agony. Time stretches—minutes or hours, he cannot tell—until a second chime interrupts the silence.

System Notification

Skill acquired: Meditation

A strange clarity washes over him. The pain doesn’t vanish, but it becomes easier to bear. His scattered thoughts align, and a newfound calm settles within him. Through this fragile meditative state, he feels a glimmer of control, however faint, returning to his fractured being.

The boy, now known as Arthur, drifted in and out of consciousness. His mind was enveloped in a fog so dense it felt almost tangible, each thought struggling to break through the haze. The faint chime of the system’s notifications echoed in his head, like a lighthouse guiding him through the storm. Amidst the chaos, it was his only anchor, a beacon of clarity in this alien and overwhelming reality.

System Notification

Skill Acquired: Focus

The sound cut through the murk, sharp and reassuring. It wasn’t much, but it was something—a small step toward regaining control. Arthur could already feel the effect of his new skill, however faint. The crushing weight of pain seemed a fraction lighter, and his awareness of the world around him grew sharper. He latched onto that thread of progress, willing himself to think clearly.

His body was unresponsive, but his mind remained his. And if the system was real, as the notifications suggested, it had rules. Rules that could be understood, exploited, and mastered. A system usually comes with commands or prompts, he reasoned. Slowly, deliberately, he tried the most intuitive option:

"Status."

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Status Window

Name: Arthur

Class: None

Health: Critical

Stamina: Depleted

Mana: Locked

Attributes:

* Strength: Feeble

* Dexterity: Unsteady

* Intelligence: Sharp

* Constitution: Fragile

* Charisma: Unremarkable

Skills:

* Pain Resistance (7)

* Meditation (5)

* Focus (1)

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The translucent window materialized in his mind’s eye, its soft blue glow casting faint illumination over his thoughts. Arthur scrutinized the information, piecing together the fragments of his situation. His health, unsurprisingly, was critical. His stamina was non-existent, and his mana was locked, though its potential teased at deeper systems he couldn’t yet access.

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His attributes painted a stark picture of his physical condition—fragile, feeble, and unsteady. But his intelligence stood out, a potential asset he could lean on. The skills listed confirmed his progress thus far, though they were rudimentary. Pain Resistance was his armor; Meditation was his tool for focus; and Focus itself provided a scaffold for deliberate thought.

Arthur pondered the system’s mechanics. It seemed to reward intent. If so, he needed to act within its framework, no matter how limited his current options were. He forced himself to ignore the dull ache saturating his body and considered his next move. What can I control? What tools do I have?

Meditation had been the first step, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to address the immediate threat: survival. If this system reflected progression, survival skills might unlock more pathways. He concentrated on the idea of survival, envisioning himself enduring against the odds.

System Notification

Skill Acquired: Survival Instinct

Arthur felt a spark of understanding, faint but promising.

The new skill brought a subtle shift in his perception. As he opened his eyes, the room seemed to come alive with details. The dim light from a flickering lantern cast dancing shadows on the wooden walls. The air carried the earthy aroma of dried herbs and a faint metallic tang of blood. Every creak of the floorboards and whisper of wind outside the cabin felt sharper, more immediate.

Arthur’s thoughts raced. He now had three core tools: Focus, Meditation, and Survival Instinct. They weren’t powerful, but they offered a foundation. His immediate goal was clear: stabilize his condition. He couldn’t think about thriving or unlocking the system’s deeper mechanics until he was out of critical danger.

Survival requires strategy, he thought, his mind shifting gears. What resources do I have? His gaze wandered to the cluttered shelves lining the cabin’s walls, filled with vials, herbs, and strange tools. Gretta’s mutterings earlier suggested she was knowledgeable about medicine—or at least practical remedies. If he could identify the materials she used, he might aid in his own recovery.

Arthur closed his eyes again, shifting his focus to his breathing. Each inhale and exhale was deliberate, measured, a form of meditation he was beginning to master. The pain clawing at his body was still present, but it felt manageable, a dull roar rather than a crippling wave.

The notification was a small victory, but it reinforced his resolve. He began cycling between his skills, weaving Focus and Meditation together to push through the haze and maintain clarity. Each moment spent in concentration felt like a step forward, a reclamation of his strength.

Suddenly, his new skill, Survival Instinct, triggered passively. A faint pulse of awareness rippled through him, directing his attention toward the door. Though his body remained weak, his mind sharpened. He sensed movement on the other side—likely Balfir pacing, his heavy boots scuffing the wooden floor. It wasn’t a threat, but it was a sign of life, a potential ally in this precarious situation.

Arthur knew he couldn’t rely on goodwill alone. Gretta had made it clear she viewed him as a burden, and Balfir’s resources were stretched thin. If he was to secure his place here, he needed to prove his value. The system might reward progression, but people required results.

He clenched his jaw, summoning what little strength his battered body could muster. Progress would be slow, but he would move forward. Surviving wasn’t just about enduring—it was about adapting, learning, and preparing for the challenges ahead.

As the lantern flickered and the wind howled outside, Arthur began to map out his next steps. Survival was his immediate goal, but his mind burned with questions about the system and its origins. Each skill acquired felt like a puzzle piece, hinting at a larger picture.

For now, survival was the strategy. Progress was the plan.

The soft creak of the cabin door broke the stillness, followed by the heavy steps of Balfir as he entered. His broad frame barely fit through the narrow entry, and he carried the faint scent of sawdust and sweat, a lingering reminder of his trade. Gretta stood at the far end of the room, her wiry figure hunched over a table cluttered with dried herbs and glass vials. She didn’t turn to acknowledge him.

"He’s awake," Balfir announced gruffly, his voice low but steady.

Gretta’s hands paused for a moment before resuming their work. She placed a bundle of lavender into a mortar and began grinding it methodically.

"Barely alive isn’t the same as awake, Balfir," she muttered. "And awake doesn’t mean useful. You should’ve left him to the gods."

Arthur listened quietly from the makeshift cot, his head tilted just enough to see their exchange. His chest tightened, a mix of anger and gratitude warring within him. He wanted to speak, but his throat felt raw, his voice lost somewhere in the wreckage of his body. Instead, he observed, letting the system sharpen his focus.

"He’s not dead," Balfir countered, his tone growing defensive. "And he deserves a chance. Don’t act like you don’t enjoy the challenge, Gretta."

Gretta snorted, a sharp, disdainful sound.

"Challenge? You call this a challenge? The boy lost an arm and can’t move his legs. He’s barely more than a corpse, and you want me to waste my craft patching him up? He’ll never build anything again. And you, builder, what will you do with a crippled boy? Carry him on your back for the rest of your life?"

Balfir’s face darkened, but before he could respond, Arthur forced a ragged breath and croaked, "Stop."

The single word cut through the room like a blade. Both adults turned to face him, their expressions a mix of surprise and skepticism. Gretta’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing him as if seeing him for the first time. Balfir took a hesitant step closer.

"You shouldn’t be talking," Balfir said, his voice softer now.

"I need to," Arthur rasped. His throat burned, but he pressed on. "I’m not a burden. I’ll find a way to... to pull my weight."

Gretta leaned against her worktable, crossing her arms.

"And how, exactly, do you plan to do that? You’re missing an arm and can’t even stand. Enlighten us."

Arthur clenched his teeth, forcing his mind to stay clear. The system was his lifeline, and he had to lean on it now. He activated Survival Instinct, letting it guide his words. A flicker of insight formed—Gretta wasn’t cruel for cruelty’s sake. She valued utility, results. If he could show potential, she might reconsider.

"Teach me," Arthur said, his voice steadier now. "I can’t use my legs, but I can still think. Teach me about herbs, medicine. Let me learn."

Gretta raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Medicine? You can barely keep yourself alive. What makes you think you’re cut out for it?"

"I don’t have a choice," Arthur replied, meeting her gaze. "You said it yourself—I’m no use as I am. Let me change that. Or let me die trying."

The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the crackle of the lantern’s flame. Gretta studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she let out a slow sigh, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

"Fine. One week. If you can keep up with my lessons, I might consider not throwing you out. But if you waste my time, boy, I’ll make sure you regret it."

Arthur nodded, the strain of the conversation leaving him breathless. He closed his eyes for a moment, his thoughts churning. The system didn’t respond with any notifications, but he could feel its presence, a silent observer to his choices. His path was clear—learn, adapt, survive.

As the night deepened, Arthur turned his attention inward, cycling through his thoughts and the system’s limited resources. He still had no class, no mana, and no real strength. But now he had a plan. A way forward. And with it, a flicker of hope.

"Survival is the strategy," he reminded himself, his focus sharpening. "Progress is the plan."