“Thanks for staying late, Ell. I put extra in there.”
Ell smiled, clearly tired, and waved at Amy. The toddler waved back, bubbling something. “No problem, mister Dallton. I love her to bits, even if she’s as stubborn as any child I’ve babysat for.”
“That would be my fault.” Mark excused. “Runs in the family, that and a love for food.”
Ell laughed politely, the door clicking shut behind her. Mark kept an eye on Amy as she walked with unsure steps, reaching for him. “Did you have fun with Ell, little one?”
She nodded rapidly, losing her balance and falling backwards. She was up in a flash, that whole part of the floor covered in blankets and padding, and resumed her quest. “Good. Daddy had fun too, got to work with very big scissors.”
“Daddy!” She repeated, stretching her arms out. “Daddy strong!”
He got his boots off, hung his work jacket over the chair, and moved over. Picking her up was more fun than he’d ever imagined, as was having her relax into the crook of his arm. “Yes sweetness, daddy is strong.”
“Smelly!”
“That too. Come on, I’ll wash and you can play with the ducks.”
----------------------------------------
Warning: Moderate Strength Boost has already been activated, timer reset.
Mark ducked, the bone sword missing his head by inches, and slashed the knife through the boarkins throat. He spit out a mouthful of blood as it staggered back, giving him some breathing room, and cursed. ‘Needed to keep him for another ten.’
What sympathy he had for the thing as it tried desperately to stem the bleeding was tempered with experience, the boarkin having been trying to kill him for a good ten days now. It died slow, buying him precious time, and the giant clock reset to thirty minutes when the corpse sank into the sand.
‘Spear next. Don’t get your lungs pierced again. Two cured meats left, we can do this.’
He rolled to avoid the net, his stolen knife having disappeared with his last opponent's corpse. Pugilist leant speed to his punch, letting him hit what he was pretty sure was the equivalent to a liver. The boarkin folded, Mark hitting him over the head twice before backing off.
Endurance was key, as it had said on the tin, and he was playing by those rules. At first he’d been going at it rapidly, his fur and thick skin, not to mention his strength, letting him blitz his opponents. But the task wasn’t to kill x boarkin, it was to survive for four hours.
So he tried to be smart, crippled one, and let it drag itself by the arms as he waited out the timer. Then a second one had marched out of the gates as the clock hit zero, and he’d bailed instead of fighting two.
Only the star boar meat kept him going this long, restoring his muscles and minor wounds only when he felt he couldn't continue without. Five never felt like enough.
He tried to keep the boarkin as long as he could, seeing as they only got stronger as the rounds passed, and finish them off just before the thirty minute mark.
Crippling every single one without killing was harder than he imagined, and he stopped bothering a few days ago. It was good practice, anyway.
Mark felt bone scrape against his fur as he twisted, lunging to take a bite out of the thing. His tusks ripped through skin, swallowing a mouthful of muscle and fat. He got backhanded for the trouble, but his next regen session was almost here anyway.
Warning: Moderate Strength Boost has already been activated, timer reset.
The last hour started, the one hour he couldn't rely on freshly killed boar. Well, more like two, since they didn’t venture close to the portal and he had to find them first, but it still meant he had to ration his cured meats. The spear came for his leg, stepping back and kicking it down.
Pugilist had him step back before it could savage his stomach with a short sword, the boarkin abandoning the spear for his backup. Mark cursed, hoping for the opposite.
He wasn’t good with a sword, not in the slightest, but it was better than his fists. Correction, better to defend with than his fists. They did plenty of damage on their own, with his strength and the relevant skill maxed.
Time ticked as he fell into a routine, his various skills feeling so natural he didn’t even question them anymore. Roll here, spring to his feet and kick away a low swipe. Kick at the bastard's leg, try and cripple him, but avoid blood loss. Weaken but don’t kill, taking a bite every other minute.
The clock moved close to zero, Mark having managed to secure the sword. He stabbed, the boarkin dodging with condescending ease, and he let it drop. Squealing roared through the arena as his tusks bit out its throat, raw meat and blood filling his mouth.
It fell, dying just after the gate had opened again. He ate his second to last cured meat, his wounds healing and fatigue lessening. Not disappearing, unfortunately, but he had another one if it became a problem.
If his timing was right, and he’d practised enough it would be, he’d only need to survive for fifteen or so minutes. Two boarkin stepped out past the gate, roaring and squealing with vigour, and Mark looked at the clock as it reset. ‘Sixteen minutes. This is the run, people, this is the run.’
Twice before he’d gotten here, fighting two of the things at once, and twice he’d been forced to retreat. They were more skilled than any that came before them, knew how to work together, and didn’t give him time to breath.
He fell, rolling with the blow to lessen its impact, and whipped sand into their eyes. It didn’t work great, he was just a little too far away, and now they’d know to expect it. Mark scrambled back as they closed in, resisting the urge to run. They were faster than him, and didn’t have to keep an eye on their buffs like he did.
Speaking of, he took a finger. It was surprisingly funny to see the look on its faces as he bit, pain mixing with indignation as it pulled its hand back. ‘Shouldn't have put it so close, then.’
He earned a deep cut to his arm for the trouble, making him wish he could keep the thick skin from the star boars active, but it wouldn’t kill him. Not soon, anyway, and that was all that mattered. Minutes ticked by as he scrambled and dodged, will of stone keeping his panic in check.
With five minutes on the clock they abandoned all defence, charging recklessly and forcing him to choose minor wounds over major ones. His left hand was taken with thirty seconds left, sheer panic threatening to overtake his mind as the sword sliced through flesh and bone.
It dropped to the floor, being swallowed by the sands, and he ate his last cured meat on instinct.
The bleeding stopped, so that was good, but fresh skin started to close the stump off, which was far less good. Mark didn’t have time to worry about it now, a shallow scratch on his neck reminding him they still wanted him dead.
He broke out in a run, surprising them briefly, and heard them charge after him as he counted down. ‘Ten seconds. Come on, come on.’
A spear tore his leg open, pinning him to the ground. He tore it away, doing more damage than the spear itself, and hobbled as fast as he could. Snarling teeth were just about to close around his neck, he could feel the hot breath on him, and the clock rang out.
Mark collapsed, wishing desperately for just one more piece of cured meat, and waited out his regeneration. His stump was still a stump, anxiety pooling in his gut, and his leg had seen better days. Still, he forced himself to stand.
A chest, large enough to fit a man, surged out of the sands as the two boarkin sank below. The spectators had disappeared too, leaving the colosseum feeling empty and strangely cold, so he hobbled over. Using his one hand to open it left him feeling stranger still, the entire thing containing just two items.
Or just one, if he was feeling technical. He touched it, his status pinging with pride.
Cestus of the Pugilist. Attacks dealt with this weapon deal concussive force, rattling bone and tearing skin.
Awarded to Mark Dallton for clearing the Realm of Endurance with a party of one, using his fists to deal the majority of damage done.
‘Guess I don’t need to finish those gloves.’ He picked up his prize, securing them under his belt with a shaky hand. “Get me the fuck out of here.”
He blinked, his feet touching cold stone. Mark looked up, the portal shrinking as he watched, rapidly then slowly, until it stretched no wider than his arm and stabilised.
Realm of Endurance cleared. Cestus of the Pugilist granted. 190 experience rewarded.
Gluttony has increased to level ten.
General Skills were not used during combat. No experience rewarded.
He ignored his status, hoping that hadn’t deleted all the boars in the area, and ran. Ignoring pain, by leaning on pain resistance or not, had become something of a theme over the last week. Having to ration his regeneration gave him more appreciation for the skill, letting him fight and think without distraction or fear. Now, though, the fear came in spades.
‘Breathe. Get a boar, eat, heal. The finger came back, so will the hand.’ He took one of the cestus gloves from his belt, using his teeth to secure it as he ran. ‘Hunt, eat, heal.’
The mantra kept him calm, or at least occupied, and he arrived at the stream in record time. His lungs burned as he slowed, his feet pressing painfully against the ground from where he’d cut his soles bloody. His shoes had been the last to go, by luck more than anything else, but making new ones proved more difficult than expected.
‘Even those open toe roman things, whatever they’re called. Ah, piggy. Stay still, still.’
The boar huffed as it saw him, Mark swore it eyed his missing hand, and charged. He stepped, bringing his fist down on its back as it moved past him. It squealed in pain, rounding on him.
Mark slipped dramatically, the boar capitalising on his mistake with glee. He rolled, stone digging into his back, and it didn’t get the time to correct its mistake before his fist met skull.
Without buffs it would do limited damage, Mark preparing to dodge at a moment's notice, but it staggered. He hit it again, feeling bone whine and skin rapture as the cestus connected. ‘Fucking hell, ratteling bone is an understantlemt.’
The boar collapsed entirely, stunned if not dead, and he picked up a rock to be sure.
For killing a Star Boar you have been granted five experience.
General Skills were not used during combat. No experience rewarded.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
He ignored the less than helpful message, taking out a spare tusk and stabbing deep. Too brittle for fighting, too light for concussing, he only really used them to spare his metal knives. Flesh was torn free, chewed on and swallowed. Then he collapsed on the ground, his back to a not very comfortable boulder, and waited.
And waited more, his feet relaxing as the shallow wounds closed. The euphoria calmed his mind, a smile on his lips as he watched the stream flow, and he kept eating. After half an hour his stump tingled, resolving to eat until the whole boar was gone if necessary, and by the hour skin split to show bone.
Pain was there, grinding and shifting as his forearm pushed and blood flowed, but the fear ebbed. Hurt was almost normal, unlike missing a hand, and he'd take the former over the latter any day. ‘That be some good irony, getting those cestus but losing a hand.’
It took nearly two hours before his hand was back, flexing and twisting it, and another ten before he was assured his hand was back to normal. He carved five new meats and selected cure, putting them away and coming to a stand. ‘Losing a finger is fine, losing a hand is not. Hell, even puncturing a lung isn’t a problem, as long as it’s not an entire appendage. You do you, system, you do you.’
He called up his status as he walked home, contentment spreading. Losing a hand was fine, assuming he had a boar to eat, and he got a shiny new weapon. Even complimented his skills, which reminded him. “Status.”
Name: Mark Dallton Class: Gluttony Level: 10 (60/200) Class skills (3):
Adaptable
Durance
Strong Stomach
Consume
Cure
Uncaring killer
General Skills (1):
Pain Tolerance: level 5 (maxed)
Dodge: level 5 (maxed)
Hunting: level 5 (maxed)
Throwing: level 5 (maxed)
Footwork: level 5 (maxed)
Pugilist: level 5 (maxed)
Will of Stone: level 5 (maxed)
Crafting: level 3 +
Rock fighting (locked)
Bone fighting (locked)
Spear fighting (locked)
Club fighting (locked)
Knife fighting (locked)
Sword fighting (locked)
Foraging (locked)
Farming (locked)
Skinning (locked)
Campfire Cooking (locked)
Stonemasonry (locked)
Woodworking (locked)
Tailor (locked)
Body of Stone (locked)
Quick reaction (locked)
Feature: Kill and eat, eat and survive. Buffs: None
Still no new skill for his class, lending strength to his once per three levels theory. When he got no skill on six or seven he’d been surprised when it came on the eighth, so if logic held he’d get one next level. Which was good, because uncaring killer had been very useful. A little disturbing, sure, but useful.
Uncaring killer. You care not how it is done, care not what you have to do, as long as they die. Stone, bone or even fists, as long as it kills it will serve. This skill increases speed, competence and reaction time with any weapon. Take and take, take ever more.
Buying Pugilist when it’d showed up had been too tempting to resist, breaking his promise to get crafting and being rewarded for it in the same breath.
Pugilist. If fists are all you have, use them well. This skill increases speed, competence and reaction time when fighting with your fists. Uncaring Killer enhances this skill by a minor degree.
Knowing skills could enhance one another was very good information to have, and it had been what he needed to make progress in the dungeon. Or realm, whatever name the system wanted to give it. Then there was will of stone, making him put off crafting yet again.
Will of Stone. Strength does not exist solely in the body, and the stone cares not for fear nor death. This skill increases mental fortitude, letting you keep to the quest for a little longer.
Prerequisites:
Maxed Pain Tolerance.
Come near death, deny the Reaper, and recover to full.
A skill as good as or better than his class skills, with prerequisites to match. Not that he’d gotten it on purpose, or even that knew skills could have prerequisites, but buying it was too good to pass up.
And he was very glad for his impatience, because he’d bought crafting at level nine. Bought it, and then found out he’d need to use said skill in a fight for it to grant experience. Something that turned out to be impossible.
And he tested. Using tools he’d made from scratch, with the skill, didn’t count. Nor did traps, poorly made ones, admittedly, but made by him alone. A week and he’d only gotten two levels, one for rebuilding his wall and the other for making a clay pot.
Not having to walk to the stream for water was a godsend, true, but he’d admit the dungeon had kept him busy. Levelling had slowed to a crawl anyway. It hadn’t been a priority back then, but he had figured out why. Picking crafting had come a level after mind of stone, his ninth level, but he’d needed another hundred experience by the time it had maxed. Hadn’t thought much of it, just more grinding, until he killed a boar and he’d gotten twenty experience for it.
Full xp if the number of general skills equals class levels, assuming all of them are maxed.
He’d been perhaps a little too happy to have figured it out, carving it into the rock next to his cave in large blocky letters. Stone tools didn’t make for good writing, but his adaptable skill had made it a fairly painless endeavour. He patted the wall, now consisting of properly stacked stones with frozen mud to fill the gaps, and ducked inside.
His new weapon went on the table, sitting on his bed and putting his feet up. His footstool was also his only stool, wobbling precariously, and he sighed. ‘Should really make that better. No idea what I was thinking, not adding stabilisers to the feet.’
It seemed so obvious now, just like it’d seemed only logical to take mud at the warmest part of the day, rebuild his wall, and let it freeze come nightfall. He took a drink, draping the two sleeping furs over himself. ‘Now, what’s new?’
Quick Reaction. Duck or get hit, move or get moved. This skill slightly reduces the delay between the senses and movement.
Body of Stone. The body is a vessel, the mind its master. This skill increases natural toughness, letting you keep to the quest for a little longer. Adaptable enhanced this skill by a minor degree.
Prerequisites:
Maxed Will of Stone.
Endure extreme physical punishment, lose a major body part, and recover to full.
‘Are hands a major body part?’ Mark shrugged, turning his focus to the wobbling chair. ‘Body of stone all the way, but nooo, why let someone train two skills at once? That would be sheer madness, it would.’
He stood after a few more minutes of laziness, looking over his pile of wood. Odds and ends, mostly, but enough to add some support to his chair. But the rope was almost used up, so he set to braiding. An old video came to mind, about twisting the individual strands clockwise and braiding counterclockwise, so his fingers moved.
The chair was shoddy from the beginning, he saw when he was done with the rope, so he took it apart. Rebraided the rope he got from it, using strong sticks for the legs but supple ones for the seat, and before he knew it twilight had fallen.
The chair stood, though, and took his weight without complaint. No message came to reward his effort, but now that he got into the mindset he saw plenty of other things to improve. ‘Sleep first, then we’ll see if crafting can’t be maxed.’
He couldn't, not on the next day or the one after that, but on the third day it pinged. Mark put down the boots, his fourth try at the things, and looked.
For utilising General Skills to their utmost you have been granted experience.
Crafting has increased to level four.
He grinned, picking up the sandals again. ‘So now we stop showing numbers. Or is that just for non combat skills, hmm?’
No one answered, he would be disturbed if they did, and he finished securing the strap. Without a proper needle he had to drill a hole with his key knife, forcing the rope through with the same. Slow work, and not very accurate, but he had plenty of leather. Especially for small works like this, where the quality of his skinning didn’t matter as much.
Mark put them on the small pile of clothes, honest-to-god pants and a jacket already finished. Socks would be next, but something had to be done first. He’d been able to make his status show things in a different format before, letting him see the number of experience needed for his next class level, and with will of stone he’d gotten further still.
It took effort, gave headaches as a reward, but change it did. So he worked when his headache had disappeared, day after day, until the finish line was in sight.
An hour of concentration later, where it felt like he was scooping up water with his mind, and he let it drop, panting. “Fucking good enough. Not wasting another couple of days on this, mark my word. Status.”
Name: Mark Dallton Class: Gluttony Level: 10 (60/200) Class skills (3):
Adaptable - Physical changes when eating, boosts def skills?
Durance - Buff timer times two.
Strong Stomach - Eat anything.
Consume - Anything eaten feeds well.
Cure - Five meats max, forty eight hours instead of three.
Uncaring killer - Better fighting with weapons, boosts attack skills?
General Skills (1):
Bought skills:
Pain Tolerance: level 5 (maxed)
Dodge: level 5 (maxed)
Hunting: level 5 (maxed)
Throwing: level 5 (maxed)
Footwork: level 5 (maxed)
Pugilist: level 5 (maxed)
Will of Stone: level 5 (maxed)
Crafting: level 4 +
Useful skills:
Spear fighting (locked)
Club fighting (locked)
Knife fighting (locked)
Sword fighting (locked)
Body of Stone (locked)
Quick reaction (locked)
Useless skills:
Rock fighting (locked)
Bone fighting (locked)
Foraging (locked)
Farming (locked)
Skinning (locked)
Campfire Cooking (locked)
Stonemasonry (locked)
Woodworking (locked)
Tailor (locked)
Feature: Kill and eat, eat and survive. Buffs: None
Adding notes was where most of the headaches came from, but with collapsible menu’s his eyes weren’t assaulted with a wall of text every time he wanted to look at his status. It also made up for a lack of paper, even if every added word was more pain. Caveman speak would have to do, he decided.
He checked the pot, perhaps his most useful achievement yet, and saw it was almost empty. It didn’t leak, not like versions one and two had, but water went more quickly than he ever imagined. ‘I miss running water. And hot showers. I’d kill for a hot shower.’
Sighing and picking it up, he was out the door before he could delay the chore. Halfway to the river, wearing his easy to repair gambeson instead of his proper clothes, he slowed. Footsteps tracked through the dirt, a group of six, and he didn’t recognize the prints. He could guess, though, seeing as they looked very much like his own.
Mark pulled the cestus from his belt, strapping them on tightly as his heart leapt into his throat. ‘Other people. Faces, voices that aren’t my own or looping endlessly. Maybe not friendly.’
The last thought calmed him, surprisingly, and he started walking again. Friendly or not, he still needed water. Better to confront them sooner rather than later, perhaps when they found his cave and he was asleep.
They found him first, six armed and armoured strangers stepping over the hill and into his sightline. They halted, hopefully in surprise, as Mark did the same. Most were dirty and looked tired, two standing out from the rest. A man, standing front and centre, wearing polished half plate armour and waving grandly. To the side, apart from the others, was a startlingly beautiful woman, wearing thick leather armour and tapping a wicked looking knife hanging from her hip.
“Finally!” The man called, walking closer. The rest of the group joined him, lagging behind. “Our last wayward member, if I may be so bold. It’s been, what, a month? So, my gluttonous new friend, how did you kill yourself?”
A different woman, wearing dark, crude and dirty plate slapped him over the head. The man laughed. “Sorry, sorry. Thought a joke might break the tension.”
He took in Mark’s clenched fists, his gaze lingering on the metal protrusions of the cestus. “I was wrong, clearly.”