Parry, dressed and alert, put an ear to the door, finding only silence.
Alright, time to check stats.
He braced, ready for any surprises and ready to run if need be. His enemy already promised him a "new hell," which could mean a trap right in his stats. It had happened before.
A healthy body, young, literate, wealthy (two shirts!), no significant disabilities so far, it's been too easy--there's going to be trouble, it probably begins here.
With a flick of one finger, Parry brought up the base screen:
Strength 27 / 100 Dexterity 61 / 100 Fatigue 74 / 100 Magic 8 / 100 Health 59 / 100
It's amazing how statistics can tell you everything and nothing. He'd been ill, it stands to reason strength would be low. Dexterity too, he wasn't about to go leaping over rooftops. Bed rest replenished some fatigue, and health was on the mend, but he'd likely tire quickly.
All useful information, but what were his current maximums? The usual human limit of '100' applied, not a problem when countless spells and items would increase them--but what could he expect of his peak right now? A light, lithe, immature build like his at full recovery probably topped out around 50 strength and 80 health.
He expected a feeble magic score (no one is an arch-mage at at thirteen), but was it really so low, or did 'Ochre fever' deplete him? Why an '8' if he was already literate? That's going to take some investigation.
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Parry flicked a finger for the next screen, his Weapon Proficiencies:
Staff, long Level 1 Sword, short Level 2 Bow, short Level 1 Hand-to-hand, basic Level 1 Hand-to-hand, knife Level 1 Hand-to-hand, bludgeon Level 1
He fought back a wave of dismay. The last twenty years he'd been the absolute master of those weapons and dozens more. Overlord Parry had no equal with a blade, and what did that get him now? Almost nothing.
It's not so grim: everything learned in thousands of previous lives is a tremendous asset. With enough practice, you'll rebuild muscle memory and hone your strength and reflexes.
Reassuring, but it's going to take time, opportunity, equipment, even proper nutrition. Spells and items can hurry things along, but magic works best when it's cast on ready soil. An incantation like [Strength of the Legion] isn't so effective on a tadpole.
Glancing proficiency with staff, sword and bow, so he was neither a farmer's son nor a pauper. Not an acolyte either, you don't need to know how to shoot arrows if you're tending an altar. Were he a member of the higher nobilities there'd be at least a level in horsemanship and possibly command, fencing or even aerial combat--no riding a gryphon into battle today. Instead he had enough fisticuffs to survive a bar-room or back ally spat.
Most places in the world, this was all basic education. You didn't survive long if you couldn't hit someone with a stick or punch your way out of a jam. Below the fifth, levels were a coarse measurement that meant little. He'd clearly gotten some kind of lessons with a sword, but that could have come from an indulgent uncle or older sister. Press some poor basket weaver into the militia and spend two weeks drilling them with a short sword and they'd reach 'Level 2.'
No sense waiting, best check skills next.