His eyes fluttered open, the first thing he saw being the familiar ceiling of his room. He attempted to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through his abdomen, a protest from his overworked muscles. Using his arms for leverage, he slowly pushed himself upright. His muscles were stiff, protesting with a dull ache, but strangely, the pain felt… good. A testament to the effort he'd exerted. He wondered, amidst the lingering exhaustion, if all that grueling training had at least earned him a level up. Then, the cruel reality of the system's 25% experience reduction hit him.

He muttered the command to check his status, and the familiar menu shimmered into existence before his eyes:

SPECIES: Human

NAME: Tyler Evans

RANK: G LVL: 7

CLASS: Craftsman

HP: 43/43 MP: 39/39

STR: 30 AGI: 24 DEF: 45

STATUS: Slight Exhaustion

Skills: Armour Craft, Weapon Craft

A surprised gasp escaped his lips. He stared at the screen, his eyes lingering on "LVL: 7". That meant... he'd leveled up. Three times. "Wait," he breathed, the implications dawning on him, "does that mean I leveled up… three times?"

He realized each of his stats had increased by 6. It was almost unbelievable; he'd improved this much in a single day. But wait—didn't the system cut his experience by 25%? If that was the case, he should have leveled up even more than this. Or was the experience reduction only applied when killing monsters? He wasn't sure, but he wasn't complaining. He was glad he'd leveled up at all. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood up, and stretched, the familiar satisfying pops and cracks echoing in the quiet room. Then, as if summoned by thought, his silver sword materialized in his hand.

He examined the silver sword again, turning it over in his hands. "This sword is really sharp," he murmured, "I know it says +6% attack and all that, but that's not all it does, right?" He looked at the weapon thoughtfully, then tossed it dismissively into the air. With a shimmer, it vanished, reappearing neatly in his inventory. He opened his door and stepped out, finding Grone meticulously packing some wrapped food into a leather bag. "Oh, you're up," Grone said, looking up with a smile. "Good morning." "Good morning," Tyler replied.

"All that training from yesterday was pretty effective," Tyler commented, flexing his hand.

Grone looked up, questioning. "Huh?"

"I actually leveled up."

"Yeah, I mean, it was pretty obvious," Grone said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "You almost died out there."

"No, what I mean is," Tyler clarified, a grin spreading across his face, "I leveled up *three* times."

Grone's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You leveled up three times? Seriously?"

"Yes," Tyler confirmed, "I'm a level seven now."

Grone paused, then said thoughtfully, "Huh, you're just three levels from being an F-rank."

Tyler's eyes widened in surprise. He hadn't realized how close he was. "Three levels away from F-rank? Wow, I didn't know I was that close!"

"Does that mean that an F-rank is level 10?" Tyler asked.

Grone shrugged. "Yes, an F-rank is when you hit level 10... or is it 9? I'm not entirely sure. Are you thinking of training today?"

Tyler considered this, a slight ache lingering in his muscles. "Yes, I'm thinking of training today."

"Okay," Grone said, "but we're only doing it this morning. I have to go take on some more quests, and you can probably help head out in the shop a little more this afternoon."

Tyler frowned. "What do you mean by 'help'? I can't really craft anything without the system."

"I can't even hold a sword I didn't craft," Tyler pointed out.

Grone nodded, his expression unchanged. "I'm not talking about crafting. You can help him clean, can't you? You did that before."

Tyler considered this. "All right, I'll consider it." He then remembered Hector's request to see his crafting skills. That could be useful.

"Okay, let's go," Grone said, heading for the door.

Tyler followed Grone out the door and they headed straight for the waiting wagon. Leaving the town behind, they arrived at their familiar training area. Tyler began his routine, hoisting the weighted bag onto his shoulders and setting off towards the distant tree. He started his run, but something felt… different. The bag felt lighter, or perhaps he had become stronger, faster. A surge of exhilaration coursed through him as he ran, his pace increasing, a small smile playing on his lips. He realized with a jolt of understanding that this newfound ease was a direct result of his leveling up. He was only level 7, and yet he felt… powerful.

He reached the tree and returned, completing five round trips before the familiar burn of exertion returned, the weight of the bag pressing down once more. Grone called out, "Stop! I want you to do two hundred push-ups."

Tyler grinned. "Easy."

"With the bag on your back," Grone added.

Tyler's grin faltered. "What? You want me to do them with this thing on my back?"

Grone nodded. "It's going to be hard, but that's the point, right?"

"Oh, of course," Tyler said, though his tone held a hint of apprehension. He dropped to the ground, the weight of the bag settling heavily on his shoulders. He began the push-ups, a groan escaping his lips with each grueling repetition.

This went on for some time. His hands trembled as he counted, "198... 199..." As he prepared for the two hundredth push-up, his hands shook violently, threatening to give way. With a final surge of effort, however, he managed to complete the two hundredth repetition and collapsed onto the ground, breathing heavily.

Grone nodded. "Okay, now it's time." He unsheathed his sword, the glint of steel catching the sunlight. Tyler, surprised by Grone's sudden action, watched him expectantly. "Remove the bag and stand up," Grone instructed. Tyler obeyed, effectively removing the heavy bag and rising to his feet.

Grone gestured towards Tyler. "Alright, let's begin the basics. Put your sword out."

Tyler closed his eyes, focused, and willed the silver sword into his hand. It materialized with a soft shimmer.

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Grone's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "How do you do that?"

Tyler explained, "I have this… inventory. It's like a space where I can keep materials and equipment."

Grone considered this, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Is that the way you kept the slime cores?" he asked.

"Yes," Tyler confirmed.

"Hmm," Grone said. "Let's continue. First, the stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight balanced. Imagine a line running from your feet, up through your body, and extending out through the tip of your sword. Maintain that alignment. Don't hunch your shoulders; keep your back straight but not rigid. Feel the balance."

Grone demonstrated, his movements fluid and precise, a picture of controlled power. He moved with an almost effortless grace, his stance unwavering. He then showed Tyler the basic movements: the draw, the parry, the simple thrust. He emphasized the importance of control, of precision, of maintaining balance and awareness. "Every movement should be deliberate, purposeful. Feel the weight of the sword, become one with it. Don't just swing; cut." He corrected Tyler's posture repeatedly, his instructions clear and concise, his corrections gentle but firm. The training session continued, the rhythmic clash of steel against steel filling the air as Grone patiently guided Tyler through the fundamental techniques of swordsmanship.

Tyler, diligently repeating Grone's instructions, began to find his rhythm. His movements, initially clumsy and hesitant, became smoother, more precise. He started to embody Grone's teachings, mirroring the instructor's fluid grace with surprising accuracy. Grone watched, a hint of surprise in his eyes. Tyler was picking it up far faster than he'd anticipated. "Natural talent?" he wondered.

"Tyler," Grone said, interrupting the training, "did you do this kind of thing before you came to this world? Anything related to using a sword?"

Tyler hesitated. "Um, no, not really."

"Oh, alright," Grone said, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Well, don't let me stop you. Continue. I want you to repeat this until you can execute it perfectly."

Grone nodded, observing Tyler's increasingly proficient movements. After a while, he declared, "Okay, seems like you've got the hang of it." He paused, his expression turning serious. "You see these moves I've been showing you? I want you to internalize them, because I'm about to attack you."

"What?" Tyler exclaimed, his surprise evident.

Before Tyler could react, Grone launched himself forward, his sword a blur of motion. The attack was swift and precise, a direct thrust aimed at Tyler's chest. Tyler, reacting instinctively based on Grone's earlier instructions, raised his sword in a parry, the silver blade meeting Grone's with a sharp clang. The force of the impact sent a jolt through Tyler's arm, but he held his ground. He attempted a counter-attack, a slashing motion aimed at Grone's side, but Grone deftly sidestepped, his movements fluid and anticipatory. Grone's next attack was a feint to the left, followed by a rapid thrust towards Tyler's right flank. Again, Tyler reacted, parrying the blow with a controlled movement, his stance remaining firm. The exchange continued, a rapid dance of steel, with Tyler's defense becoming increasingly effective as he integrated Grone's teachings into his instinctive reactions. Though Grone's attacks were relentless, Tyler managed to block each one, his movements becoming more confident and precise with each passing moment. The clash of steel echoed through the training grounds, a testament to the intensity of their exchange. Grone remained composed, while sweat beaded on Tyler's brow, a testament to the exertion of the unexpected sparring match. Neither was injured, but the sweat on Tyler's brow and the exertion in his movements spoke volumes about the intensity of the training.

Tyler breathed heavily, his chest heaving. "It seems I can parry your moves," he said, a hint of pride in his voice.

Grone shook his head. "It seems you can, but not unless I get serious."

"What do you mean?" Tyler asked, a little confused.

"Raise your sword, and let's try again. You'll see," Grone said, his expression turning serious.

Tyler raised his sword, adopting the stance Grone had taught him. Before he could even fully settle, Grone moved. With a speed that seemed to defy the laws of physics, Grone's sword flashed out, intercepting Tyler's weapon with impossible speed. The impact wasn't a clash of steel, but a precise, almost delicate touch that sent Tyler's sword spinning from his grasp before he could even register the movement. The weapon landed several feet away, the silence that followed emphasizing the stark difference in their skill. Grone's movement was a blur of controlled power, a testament to years of honed skill and instinctive combat awareness. The speed and precision were breathtaking.

Tyler was very surprised. One moment his sword was in his hand; the next, it wasn't. He looked to the side and saw it lying on the ground several feet away. "Whoa," he breathed, "Can you teach me how to do that?"

Grone chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "In time," he said, "You're still an G-rank. To reach that level of skill, you need to level up, kid."

Grone glanced at the sun, realizing how quickly the time had passed. "Oh," he said, "I almost forgot. I have quests to attend to. You should head back to town."

"But what if I go later?" Tyler asked.

Grone blinked, clearly surprised by the question. "Huh?"

"Well," Tyler explained, "I want to make a few more runs and exercise a bit more before heading back to town. I just have to wait at the main road for any wagon to pass by, right?"

Grone sighed. "Yeah, you know the way, right?"

"As we're in a training field, I think it's pretty obvious where I should go," Tyler replied.

Grone reached into his pocket, producing two copper coins. He handed them to Tyler. "Don't get lost, and don't lose these," he said before turning and walking away.

Tyler said, "Alright," and waved a hand in farewell. He looked down at the copper coins; they shimmered blue for a moment before vanishing into his inventory. He then retrieved his weighted bag, hoisted it onto his shoulders, and started running towards the tree. He ran and ran, his mind racing. He'd leveled up three times since his last training session; what if he pushed himself even harder this time? He'd been exhausted before, the pain intense, but this time he wanted to push past his limits, to truly exhaust himself. He believed that was the key to leveling up again.

This time, he completed seven round trips before collapsing midway, fainting once more. He awoke twenty minutes later with a gasp, looking around in confusion. He was alone; Grone was gone. He woke again, the bag still heavy on his back, feeling even heavier than before. He decided to jog back to the tree, the familiar burn in his muscles a dull ache. Reaching the tree, he finally removed the bag, leaning against its sturdy trunk, utterly exhausted. "Maybe I need a little break," he mumbled.

His eyelids grew heavy, threatening to close, but then his eyes snapped open, his heart pounding. "No", he thought, "I need to continue training. That's how I'll level up. I need to know the system's objectives." He stood, readjusted the heavy bag on his back, and a new idea sparked in his mind. "What if I try to practice the moves Grone showed me with the sword, while I have this bag on?" he muttered to himself.

The sword shimmered into existence in his hand, and he began. He moved slowly at first, carefully weaving through the steps Grone had taught him, mimicking Grone's precise footwork and movements. He recalled Grone's attacks, visualizing them as he fought an imaginary opponent. The bag felt incredibly heavy, slowing his agility, making Grone's imagined victories feel all too real. But he persisted, pushing through the exhaustion and the weight. Finally, dizziness overwhelmed him. He removed the bag, collapsing onto his back, the ground a welcome relief.

He sat up, a stubborn glint in his eyes. "No," he muttered, his body screaming in protest, "I need to do more." Ignoring the burning in his muscles, he hoisted the bag back onto his shoulders and began another set of push-ups. He pushed himself relentlessly, completing 150 before his arms finally gave out. He removed the bag, his chest heaving. "Maybe this is enough," he thought, but the thought was immediately dismissed. "No," he decided, again. He slung the bag back on and started running towards the tree. He ran until his legs gave way, sending him sprawling to the ground. The pain was intense; his muscles felt like they might snap. He was burning up, a furnace of exertion, but he refused to stop. Using his arms and legs, he scrambled forward, inching closer to the tree, his body screaming in protest with every strained movement. He moved like a soldier in a tunnel, his only focus the distant goal, pushing past the limits of his endurance.

He finally reached the tree, his fingers brushing against its rough bark. "I... I did it," he gasped, the words catching in his throat. The urge to faint, to collapse into blissful unconsciousness, was overwhelming, but he pushed it down. "No," he muttered, "I need to go back." He stood, swaying slightly, and removed the bag, letting the stones spill onto the ground. He knew he couldn't run anymore. Instead, he shouldered the bag and walked, his steps slow and deliberate, back towards the main road, past the starting point of his grueling exercise.

He reached the main road and sank to the ground as if his legs had simply given out, breathing heavily, the effort of even sitting a monumental task. He waited, his gaze drifting upwards to the sky. His thoughts drifted back home, to his life with Mike. What was Mike doing right now? He wondered. Had anyone even noticed his absence? Were people actively searching for him? He questioned whether Mike was truly worried, truly looking for him. It seemed obvious he should be; it had been days since he vanished from his own world.

A soft, mocking smile touched his lips. "No, Mike shouldn't look for me," he thought. "After all, I'm just a burden." Him returning to that world wouldn't accomplish much anyway. He was a burden to his family, a burden to anyone who knew him. His life felt utterly purposeless. What would happen if he returned? Would his life suddenly transform into some movie script? Would he miraculously land a job, achieve success, find a wife, have children, and die peacefully? Would his life finally have meaning, all of a sudden, like some stupid, cliché movie plot? In reality, nothing ever worked out that way. If he returned, nothing would change. The crushing weight of his uselessness settled deep in his chest, a cold, suffocating despair.

He then thought, "But this is happening in this world, too." He was taking advantage of Grone's kindness, not intentionally, but because of his own uselessness. A wave of self-reproach washed over him. Maybe he should have trained harder, pushed himself further, fainted a hundred times. Maybe he should have trained until he died. Then, at least, Grone wouldn't be burdened with this weak, useless person. Grone had a family to care for, a beautiful family, not some random weakling who stumbled into this world. Grone was helping him out of sheer kindness, a kindness Tyler felt he didn't deserve.

Tyler muttered something barely audible, his gaze fixed on the sky. "I need to level up," he whispered, the words lost to the wind. His thoughts were interrupted by the approach of a wagon. He pushed himself to his feet, using his knee for support as his protesting muscles screamed in protest. He signaled the wagon to stop, paid the driver two copper coins, and climbed into the back. This driver was different; his face was unfamiliar. Tyler settled back, resting but remaining vigilant, wary of falling asleep. He couldn't trust anyone. The wagon rumbled onward, carrying him towards the town, the journey a slow, aching return to a life he wasn't sure he wanted.

As the wagon rumbled along, Tyler's thoughts churned. He kept circling the same ideas: the need to level up gnawed at him, yet the purpose of that leveling up remained unclear. Was he leveling up to return to his world, or to stop being a burden on Grone? He couldn't decide which motivation was stronger; it felt like both were driving him, a tangled, confusing mix of desires.

It was because of this uncertainty—this feeling that returning to his world wouldn't solve anything—that the need to level up intensified. His own world had offered him nothing; this world was insane and strange, yet somehow, it all felt the same. But in this world, he had a system, a path, however strange, toward becoming something more.

He rested, gazing at the sky, until the wagon reached the town and stopped in the bustling marketplace. He climbed down, his muscles protesting with every movement, and headed towards Grone's house. Walking along the cobblestone path, he glanced towards the crafting shop. He knew Hector was inside, crafting away, and remembered Hector's Request: to show him his crafting.

He passed the crafting shop, continuing his walk. He felt too drained, too depleted, to engage in conversation, to show Hector his work. He took a left at the three-way path, entering the street where Grone lived. He saw Grone's house, went inside, and found himself in the familiar sitting room, the dining table, the kitchen opening. Turning left again, he went to his room, collapsed onto the bed, and sank into a deep, sweet unconsciousness.

After what felt like hours, the room now dim with the onset of night, the system appeared again, its message stark and repetitive: Level up! Level up! Level up! Level up!

Following the relentless repetition of Level up, another system message appeared: New skill unlocked.