Chapter 8

Avan’s vision spun, the world tilting as he stumbled out of the black void, its starry specks brushing his skin like cold static. His head throbbed, a dizzying ache that made his knees buckle, boots—new, enchanted leather, sturdy and gripping—scuffing against something soft, not stone. He blinked, shaking his head, the memory of the portal flashing back—he’d just stepped through that rune-door, leaving the dungeon behind, its *Seed of Origin* knowledge still buzzing in his skull, a chaotic library of runes and monsters he couldn’t fully grasp. “What the—?” he muttered, voice rough, hand brushing the soft leather of his belt where his chipped penknife hung, now a useless stub for scribbling, not fighting. His chest tightened, *Origin Energy*—golden threads laced with silver and violet—tingling faintly, steadying him as the dizziness faded, replaced by confusion. Where was he now?

He straightened, rubbing his eyes with his right hand, the sun’s relentless rays glaring through the trees, forcing him to squint. For a split second, panic spiked—damn, I’m late for work! It’s noon already, shit, shit, shit…—but the thought dissolved as he fully opened his eyes, taking in his surroundings. This wasn’t his Frankfurt apartment, not his black nightstand, not the tram ride with Dave to the office. He stood in the middle of a sunlit clearing, surrounded by towering beech trees, their gnarled roots sprawling, branches swaying gently in a warm breeze. The sky above was cloudless, a brilliant blue, filled with bird chirps, rustling leaves, and the distant hum of forest life. If he weren’t so shocked, he might’ve found it idyllic—perfect, even—but his heart raced, palms clammy, mind scrambling for logic.

“What the hell?” he said, voice louder, half-disbelieving, half-pissed, turning slowly to scan the area. He blinked rapidly, rubbed his eyes again, but the scene held—green, thirty-centimeter-high grass glowing faintly turquoise under the sunlight, yellow leaves drifting lazily, roots weaving through the earth. This wasn’t Frankfurt’s February frost, not the gray streets he’d walked yesterday after Wing Tsun training. His thoughts churned—did I sleepwalk? Black out during practice and end up here? No, that’s insane. I was in a dungeon, not a forest. Did the portal glitch, or is this… something else? He stayed calm, breathing deep, *Origin Healing* (Lv. 3) passively easing the stiffness from his dungeon sleep, but his nerves stayed taut, a mix of experience and unease from possibly weeks underground.

Avan knelt, running his hands through the grass, its cool, slightly damp blades brushing his fingers, the turquoise glow catching his eye, alien but mesmerizing. He wore his torn jacket and pants from the dungeon, bloodstains crusted over, his enchanted boots gripping the earth, but no shirt or socks—just the dungeon’s aftermath, his body leaner, tougher from Level 8’s growth. “Okay, Avan, chill,” he whispered, voice steadying, hands clasped in his lap, staring at them. “Something’s happened, and you’re not in Frankfurt anymore. Think—where am I? Can I find help, call work, Dave, anyone?” He ticked off the questions on his fingers, right hand moving methodically, grounding himself with each point, his dungeon-honed instincts kicking in, calculated, not panicked like before.

Calmer now, he slapped his cheeks gently, the sting waking him fully, blood rushing to his face. “Not a dream,” he said, voice sober, the slight tug of pain not changing his reality, just as he’d expected. He stood, legs steady but wary, and shielded his eyes with his left hand, the sun’s heat burning his face, leaving his pale skin tingling with the threat of sunburn. “February’s supposed to be freezing—yesterday it was snowing back home. What’s going on?” he muttered, voice tight, scanning the forest edge for shade, shelter, anything familiar. His thoughts jumped—kidnapped, dropped on another continent, a UFO abduction like some Frankfurt conspiracy nut online, or a reality show prank, though that’d be illegal as hell. He chuckled, short and bitter, the sound echoing through the trees, half-disbelief, half-amusement at the absurdity, but his dungeon experience kept him sharp, cautious, not lost in panic like the old Avan might’ve been.

Then, a rustling snapped him back, sharp and close, from the dense vegetation at the clearing’s edge. A low, threatening growl followed, deep and rumbling, like a big cat’s snarl, and his stomach dropped. “Seriously? Cliché as hell,” he muttered, voice dry, half-hoping it was his imagination, but he turned slowly, fingers brushing his belt, penknife forgotten, heart pounding with the precision of a dungeon survivor. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught it—a black wolf, massive, nearly six feet tall, its orange slit eyes glowing with hunger, bared teeth dripping saliva, fangs glinting in the sunlight. It loomed between the shrubs, fur pitch-black, claws digging into the soil, focused on him like prey, its growl steady, menacing.

“Fuck,” Avan breathed, stepping back, adrenaline surging, but his boot caught on a root, and he fell, sprawling on the grass. He scrambled backward, hands digging into the turf, the wolf stepping forward, crouching low, ready to pounce. Its growl deepened, eyes narrowing, and Avan’s mind raced—Wing Tsun training kicked in, but this wasn’t a sparring match, and his penknife was useless. *Identification* flared, sharp and clear: Corrupted Black Wolf—Level 15, enhanced strength, supernatural speed, vulnerable to energy strikes, resistant to physical blows. “Level 15?” he said, voice stunned, heart hammering, but his dungeon instincts took over, calculated, not panicked. “Way above me—damn it, but I’ve handled worse.”

The wolf leaped, a blur of black fur and orange eyes, and Avan reacted, rolling sideways, summoning *Origin Energy Shield* (Lv. 1)—a shimmering barrier of gold and silver laced with violet, draining his reserves instantly. The wolf’s claws raked the shield, sending sparks flying, the impact knocking him back, shield flickering but holding. He scrambled up, pain flaring in his shoulder, and sprinted toward the forest, the wolf’s heavy paws thundering behind him. He zigzagged through beeches, roots snagging his boots, branches whipping his face, blood trickling from a cut on his cheek, but *Origin Healing* (Lv. 3) passively dulled the sting, sealing the skin with a warm, golden glow that left him breathless but steady.

Minutes blurred into chaos, time lost in the adrenaline rush, the wolf’s growls echoing, its claws shredding trees as it closed the distance. Avan’s lungs burned, legs screaming, but his Level 8 agility—above average now—kept him ahead, *Origin Energy Manipulation* (Lv. 3) tingling in his veins, ready to strike. He spotted a cliff ahead, sheer and rocky, and skidded to a stop—too late. His foot caught, and he tumbled over the edge, shouting, “Awwww! Fuuuuck!” as he plunged twenty meters into a lake below, the impact jarring, water closing over him, knocking him out cold for a heartbeat, *Origin Healing* kicking in to dull the pain, his vitality—resilient—holding firm.

He jolted awake, coughing, spitting water, leaning forward on the muddy shore, chest heaving. “Ouch, that was steep…” he muttered, voice ragged, rubbing his face and arms, skin red and itching from the fall, Something inside him easing the ache, making it bearable. Then, out of nowhere, a chime rang in his mind, sharp and clear, but different—crisp, mechanical, not the instinctive pings of *Identification* or *Origin Energy* he’d known in the dungeon:

You have learned the Passive Skill: Pain Resistance 1.

While smacking your head against obstacles, walls, and water surfaces, you don’t care. Your head has learned to tolerate your incompetence with handling situations with more sensitivity. You feel pain more bearable with each increasing level of this Skill.

“What the hell?” Avan said, startled, waving a hand through the air as a translucent, glowing window appeared, its text sharp and bold. He flinched, trying to swipe it away, but it vanished on its own, leaving him dazed. “Some kind of overlay… straight out of a damn RPG,” he muttered, grinning despite the ache, half-amused, half-spooked. But unease crept in—why was this system different? Back in the dungeon, *Identification* and *Origin Energy* felt instinctive, like gut feelings, not these flashy, game-like notifications. Was this tied to the *Seed of Origin*, the *Origin Language – Runescript of the Origin* he’d absorbed, or something new? “Did the dungeon screw with my head, or is this place just… glitching?” he said, voice low, thoughtful, scratching the back of his neck, his dungeon-honed instincts kicking in, calculated, wary.

No sooner had he finished his thoughts about the strange interface and the possible loss of his sanity, than he immediately heard familiar, heavy footsteps coming down the slope on the side of the cliff he had just fallen from.

Wet, shivering, and disoriented, Avan stumbled to his feet, sprinting along the lake’s edge, away from the cliff. A hundred yards ahead, through the trees, he spotted a small camp—tents, a smoldering fire, hope flaring in his chest. “HELP! A wolf’s after me!” he shouted, voice raw, sweat and water dripping down his dungeon-torn clothes. He burst into the camp, desperate, but froze. No living people—just three lifeless bodies, two men and a woman, their faces half-eaten, guts spilling, claw marks raking their flesh. Flies buzzed furiously, settling on the blood and wounds, and Avan gagged, hands flying to his mouth, fighting the urge to vomit. “Oh, fuck… shit, this is bad,” he whispered, voice shaking, eyes darting to their weapons—a bow, two daggers, a sword, and a spear lying near one man.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Without thinking, he grabbed the spear, its wooden shaft rough in his hands, tip glinting in the sunlight. The wolf lunged, a black blur, and Avan reacted, jamming the spear’s butt into the dirt, *Origin Energy Manipulation* (Lv. 3) steadying his grip, his agility—above average—keeping him rooted. The wolf crashed into him, air whooshing from his lungs, its massive weight nearly crushing him, claws sinking into the ground above his shoulders. It snarled, teeth inches from his face, saliva dripping, but then it whimpered, going limp, the spear piercing its chest, heart skewered. Black blood poured down, soaking his shirt, warm and sticky, and Avan gasped, shoving the beast off, coughing, choking on the stench, *Origin Healing* (Lv. 3) passively dulling the pain, sealing minor cuts from the impact.

“Ouch, get off me!” he groaned, voice strained, crawling free, blood and muck coating his torso. Another chime rang, mechanical and bold:

Congratulations on reaching Level 9!

You will receive 5 free stat points for leveling up.

Please check your character interface to distribute your free stat points.

Congratulations! You have learned the Passive Skill: Steady 1 for killing a monster far above your level at Level 8!

What a great feat! You managed to kill a monster far above your own strength and level as a Level 8 survivor.

“What the—?!” Avan said, voice stunned, swiping the windows away, too dazed to process fully. “This is… different,” he muttered, voice low, thoughtful, scratching his chin, his dungeon instincts kicking in, calculated, wary. “Back in the dungeon, it was all gut feelings—*Identification*, *Origin Energy* pings, not these flashy pop-ups. Did the *Seed of Origin* do this, or is this new system just… louder?” He shook his head, voice dry, half-amused, half-spooked. “Maybe I’m glitching, or this place rewrote the rules. Great.” But the weight of survival hit him—goblins, the Hobgoblin, now this wolf. He sank to his knees, panting, surrounded by corpses and the wolf’s massive, blood-soaked body, its black fur still, not dissolving like dungeon monsters. Laughter burst from him, manic and relieved, tears stinging his eyes, not just for this fight but for every battle—the dungeon’s mechanized instincts, the *Origin Energy* guiding him like a dream, not fully him. “How am I even alive?” he whispered, voice breaking, sobs mixing with laughter, a human release as he processed it all, the dungeon’s instinctual precision fading, leaving him raw, real, shaken.

After the storm of emotions passed, he staggered to his feet, zombie-like, and stumbled to the lake, stripping off his soaked, blood-soaked shirt and boxers, dropping them into the shallow water to wash away the stench. The cool, clear liquid soothed his skin, red bleeding into the lake as he scrubbed the dirt and blood, half-dazed, half-relieved, watching the water ripple, *Pain Resistance* 1 easing the ache, *Origin Healing* (Lv. 3) sealing minor scrapes. He washed his clothes, then waded out, naked, back to the camp, pulling on the soggy fabric absently, nearly tripping several times, his mind still reeling. The smoldering campfire’s ashes glowed faintly, and he glanced at the wolf’s corpse, its blood pooling, spear embedded in its chest. “Hit the heart, huh?” he said, voice quiet, practical, a grim satisfaction settling in. He’d survived by instinct, luck, and *Origin Energy*, but the dreamlike state of the dungeon fights lingered—mechanized, not fully him, as if he’d been a puppet, not a person. “What was that?” he muttered, voice low, thoughtful, rubbing his temple, the *Seed of Origin*’s knowledge whispering in his mind, unanswered.

The smell of blood and guts hit him again, and he gagged, stumbling to the side, vomiting into the grass, hands shaking. “Damn… I lucked out compared to these poor bastards,” he muttered, wiping his mouth, voice hoarse, glancing at the claw-marked corpses. “Wolf got them too—those scratches match.” He rummaged through their gear, hesitant but practical, grabbing a bow, a belt for the daggers, the spear, linen pants, and a leather vest, leaving the tattered armor behind. “No use for that crap,” he said, voice dry, stuffing the items into a larger backpack, its weight heavy but manageable on his strengthened Level 9 frame. “This looks medieval—LARP gear, real weapons, a death-wolf? Definitely not Frankfurt.”

He looked up, squinting at the sky, the afternoon sun dipping toward two moons—pale, one crimson, hanging low on the horizon, clear and bright. His breath caught, voice stunned, hands trembling as he scratched his head. “Two moons… not Earth. Definitely not Earth anymore,” he said, voice low, half-shocked, half-awed, the realization sinking in, alien and surreal. “Aliens? Isekai anime style? Dead and reincarnated? This is so fucked up…” He shook his head, voice trailing off, and trudged back to the lake, dropping onto a nearby rock, letting the reality sink in—another world, magic, stats, levels, monsters, tied to the *Seed of Origin*, to *Origin Energy*. “Fantasy world, huh? Like those anime I binged with Dave… but real, with no guidebook.”

His thoughts drifted to Dave, his Frankfurt office, his parents—would they think he’d vanished, died in his bed, rotting somewhere? “Can’t change that now,” he said, voice firm, practical, pushing the worry aside. “Focus on here—opportunities, not losses. Maybe I can be a badass mage, a warrior, fly or something, if this world lets me.” Excitement sparked, despite the corpses haunting his mind, and he grinned, a shaky but real smile. “Crazy, but… it’s a dream come true, right? Better than being a lazy desk jockey back home.” But the dungeon’s mechanized instinct lingered, a shadow in his mind—had he been himself, or just a tool of *Origin Energy*? He shook it off, lying back on the rock, staring at the alien sky, exhaustion pulling him under, dreams of magic, battles, and black wolves swirling as he drifted into sleep, the *Seed of Origin* humming in his chest, a quiet promise of more.

Avan’s mind drifted after he woke up shortly after, but curiosity tugged him back. He focused, whispering, “Character interface,” and a glowing window appeared, sharp and bold, half-blocking his view:

Name: Avan

Level: 9

Class: None

Element: Celestial (via *Origin Energy* and *Seed of Origin*)

Subclass: None

Stats:

* Strength: 5

* Dexterity: 5

* Vitality: 5

* Intelligence: 5

* Wisdom: 5

* Spirit: 5

Free Stat Points: 40

Skills:

* Identification (Lv. 1)

* Origin Energy Manipulation (Lv. 3)

* Origin Healing (Lv. 3, passive healing effect)

* Origin Energy Shield (Lv. 1)

* Origin Energy Projectiles (Lv. 1)

* Origin Language – Runescript of the Origin (No level, partial compendium of runes from the dungeon, requiring expansion)

* Pain Resistance 1

* Steady 1

Currency:

* Copper: 15

* Silver: 8

* Gold: 1

* Platinum: 0

“Huh, okay… this is wild,” Avan said, voice stunned, staring at the window, its text sharp and game-like, blocking half his view. He focused, imagining it smaller, and it shrank, shifting to the left side of his vision, clearer now. “Intuitive, at least,” he muttered, voice dry, half-amused, half-wary, scratching his chin. “But why the RPG pop-ups now? Back in the dungeon, *Identification* and *Origin Energy* were quiet, instinctive—not this flashy crap. Did the *Seed of Origin* trigger this, or is this world’s system just… louder?” He frowned, voice thoughtful, running a hand through his hair, the golden glow of *Origin Energy* tingling in his chest, silver and violet sparks dancing beneath his skin. “Maybe it’s tied to my *Origin Language* or the Core’s knowledge. Or this place rewrote the rules. Great.”

He focused on the stats, and another window popped up, crisp and bold, explaining each:

Strength:

Increases physical penetrating power with melee weapons and unarmed combat.

Increases the capacity of weight you can carry.

Increases all activities related to physical strength.

Dexterity:

Increases physical speed and dexterity in combat and movement.

Increases physical range weapon handling and accuracy.

Increases all activities related to physical speed and finesse.

Vitality:

Increases your life supply by 5 per point.

Increases your physical resistances.

Increases your stamina pool by 5 per point.

Intelligence:

Increases magical impact and power.

Increases your overall understanding of magic.

Increases your speed of learning.

Wisdom:

Increases your mana pool by 5 per point.

Increases your mana regeneration by 5 per minute per point.

Increases your perception.

Spirit:

Increases your mental resistances.

Increases your magical resistances.

Increases your luck.

“Whew,” he groaned, voice tired, reading through the blurbs, head tilting. “Not super detailed, but… okay. More luck, seriously? What’s that even mean—better dice rolls or just dumb luck?” He shook his head, voice dry, half-amused. “Let’s stick with 15 Strength, 10 Dexterity, 15 Vitality, and 10 Intelligence for now. More damage, some speed, health, and brainpower. Hah.” He focused, willing the points to distribute, and the stats updated:

Stats:

* Strength: 15

* Dexterity: 10

* Vitality: 15

* Intelligence: 10

* Wisdom: 5

* Spirit: 5

Free Stat Points: 10

“Better,” he said, voice firm, practical, but he reserved the last 10 points, voice thoughtful. “Might be thresholds, like in games I’ve played with Dave. Or something I don’t get yet.” He dismissed the window with a thought, the interface vanishing, leaving him staring at the alien sky, two moons glowing faintly as dusk fell. “It’s getting dark—don’t want another wolf or worse. Tents, sure, but not here with all this blood. Smells like a buffet for beasts.”

He grabbed a tent and sleeping bags from the camp, leveraging his enhanced Strength—15 now—to carry them easily, his dungeon-honed agility guiding him to the lake’s far side, under two gray boulders shielding the site. He set up the tent quickly, throwing the bags inside, then sat, letting the day’s madness sink in—Frankfurt, the dungeon, the wolf, this world. “Far from home, huh? Survived goblins, a Hobgoblin, now this… could be my shot at something bigger,” he said, voice low, excited but wary, dreams of magic and battles swirling as exhaustion pulled him under, the *Seed of Origin* humming softly in his chest, a promise of more.