Class selection complete. Congratulations, you have been assigned the class: Candle Mage.
Mocking. Of all the luck… The last time, even with its weak reputation, he'd built it into something terrifying. Now, with everyone so raw and the initial monsters weaker, another class would have given him a better immediate advantage.
It didn't matter. Adaptation was life under the System. Every setback, an opportunity in disguise. And he had every advantage he didn't have back then.
The shriek cut off with a wet gurgle, and the teen collapsed in a spatter of crimson. The creature hunched over its kill, and Jason lunged. No finesse, just desperate brutality.
Each cloth band snapped taut, crude and awkward compared to the refined weapons he'd wielded in his prime. It would have to do. One lashed toward the monster's neck, aiming to garrote, while the second sought to trip its clawed foot. They moved under his will, guided by honed combat intuition rather than skill.
The creature was smaller than those he'd fought later – goblin-like in appearance, more viciousness than raw power. Still, it roared, thrashing wildly as the first ribbon tangled around its neck. Its claws snagged the second, ripping it apart. Jason stumbled, momentum carrying him forward. Another chilling countdown bloomed in his vision: five seconds to reanimate. He had one shot.
His hand snapped at the remaining strip, pouring every ounce of fear and focus into his wax. Its texture thickened, shifted, razor-wire thin. This wasn't his true potential, more a clumsy mimicry of what he’d later refined. Yet, necessity forced innovation.
The remaining cloth whipped out, slicing into the creature's flailing neck. It jerked in spastic horror, a gurgling choke ripping through the air. In a flurry of frantic blows, Jason finished tearing at it with the jagged wax rope. It collapsed, blood spurting in a pulsing rhythm.
A hollow chime startled him, almost drowning out the wails of terror echoing across the square.
You Have Eliminated Your First Opponent.
Level Up - Skill Point Awarded
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Another countdown. Time until the corpse dissolved into System motes. He needed every boost, every edge…and right now, that meant harvesting. He kneeled by the mangled body, focusing, but nothing happened. There was usually a sense of tugging, the flow of those motes into his soul…
Panic spiked through him. Had his regression wiped out even that basic aspect of survival? An eternity seemed to pass as he fumbled, trying to remember, to pull.
Something finally yielded. A flicker, like a firefly glowing in the twilight, absorbed straight into his skin. Relief mixed with an almost ravenous hunger, the desperation fuelling every movement as he shifted to claim this gruesome loot. He was still in this damned game.
A voice choked into a pleading moan beside him. "God, help, anyone..." A middle-aged woman crawled in agony beneath a collapsed vendor's awning, half her leg buried in rubble. A pool of blood gleamed crimson next to her twisted flesh – and something far larger was circling just beyond, waiting for its next meal.
He had seconds. Fight? He'd need better weapons, time to strategize. Flee? There would be only so many places to run before another creature cornered him. Harvest? Every mote mattered… The first glimmer of ruthlessness reawakened. Survival at any cost.
"Help…" Her moan grew weaker, desperate eyes locking with his.
One skill point.
Jason wrenched his gaze away, striding out of the square, away from her inevitable torment. His future dominion would necessitate far worse sacrifices.
The streets were awash in chaos. A man swung blindly with a crowbar at a grotesque, winged creature that screeched in predatory ecstasy. Others cowered behind a toppled car, fear their only weapon. His eyes swept the frantic tableau, taking note of the terrain, the weak links, the pockets of strength worth noting.
This was his battleground now.
A half-formed alley caught his eye – a makeshift barricade of overturned trash bins. With some effort, he shoved another dumpster into place, sealing the narrow bottleneck. Time. He needed time, and this could buy him a few minutes until the first wave of monstrous spawns thinned out.
His focus darted inward to the System interface, a familiar second skin. That single, precious skill point…
Wax Shaping: His starting point in his previous life, the basis of every brutal strategy he'd honed. The skill options branched from its icon: Reinforcement, Sharpening, Shaping. It felt so meagre, laughably basic after the complex techniques he'd used – yet now, he didn't have the luxury of waiting.
"Sharpening it is," he gritted out, sinking the point into the skill. Immediately, the wax at his forearms shifted, the flimsy cloth replaced by a denser, faintly metallic sheen. Rough edges bloomed where they hadn't existed seconds ago. Still weak, but better than what he had before.
A monstrous howl broke his focus. The alley echoed with the scraping of claws and the scent of ozone. The first test of his reformed skill was here. And with it, an opportunity: more experience, more motes, and maybe, the answer to a chilling fear. Had his regression reset everything...?
This time, there would be no room for error.