Chapter 22: Overconfidence
The apartment room felt stifling, not due to its size but from the silence that filled the space between the three men inside. Constructed from rough, dark wood, the room had an air of medieval simplicity, almost oppressive in its plainness. Four creaky bunk beds lined the walls, their rigid frames groaning under the weight of any movement. The walls themselves, bare and unadorned, seemed to absorb the tension that lingered in the room. Two doors broke up the monotony—one leading out, and the other, presumably, to a small storage area or washroom. Nothing about this space felt like it was meant to be lived in—just endured.
Niko sat on the edge of one of the lower bunks, his legs still aching from their long journey to the settlement. His muscles were sore, but it was his mind that refused to let him rest. The constant strain of surviving in this dangerous new world gnawed at him. He watched his new companions with growing unease, wondering if they would survive the trials to come. He didn't know them well, and trust in this world was hard to come by.
Candreva, the loud and boisterous Italian with a chest full of hair, had already made the cramped room his own. He stood shirtless, his thick accent filling the air with unnecessary bravado as he spoke about his past life, gesticulating wildly with his large hands.
“I’m telling you, my father was the best baker in all of Italy—no, in the world! You should’ve seen the crowds outside our bakery, lining up just to taste our bread. Strong men, you know, like me!” Candreva thumped his bare chest, flexing his muscles as if to prove his point.
Across the room, Zheng, the quiet and calculating Chinese man, watched with mild interest but clear skepticism. “I thought the French were known for their baking… pastries, right?” His tone was cautious, like someone tiptoeing around a potential minefield.
Candreva scoffed, puffing out his chest. “The French? Pfft, too delicate! Real men bake with strength! The way we knead dough in Italy… it’s an art, my friend. You wouldn’t understand.”
Zheng raised an eyebrow, clearly amused but unwilling to engage further in the debate. He turned back to cleaning his gear, letting the conversation die down.
Niko, however, barely listened to the banter. His thoughts were elsewhere. The constant danger, the brutal battles, and the sheer strangeness of the world they had been thrust into weighed heavily on him. He couldn’t bring himself to join in on the trivial conversation about bread and baking. He was more concerned with survival and the growing uncertainty that clouded his mind.
His thoughts kept circling back to his sister. Was she alive? The question gnawed at him. He had to find her, but how? This world was a nightmare, and every day brought new dangers. The thought of losing her pushed him to focus on getting stronger. He knew he couldn’t afford to be distracted.
The loud, continuous chatter between Candreva and Zheng was abruptly interrupted by a sudden noise—a metallic clank against the wooden door.
“Clank! Clank!”
The old spherical handle rattled, and the three men turned their attention toward it. The fourth bed in the room had been claimed, someone’s belongings placed neatly on the mattress, but the occupant had yet to show themselves. Now, it seemed, they would meet their mysterious roommate.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
A heavy sense of anticipation hung in the air. Niko's heart quickened, a mix of curiosity and caution coursing through him. He found himself hoping for someone experienced—an ally, perhaps a seasoned warrior who could guide them through the perils of this brutal world.
The wooden door creaked open slowly, and Niko's hope quickly faded into confusion, then discomfort. Instead of a strong, battle-hardened fighter, an old man stepped into the room. He looked frail, well into his fifties, and hunched slightly as if carrying the weight of countless battles. His thin frame was draped in a ragged brown robe, the fabric hanging loosely over his worn, muscular arms. But what drew Niko's attention most was the fact that the man was missing an entire arm. His left sleeve hung limp and empty, a sad reminder of whatever trials the man had faced.
His face was etched with deep lines of age and hardship, a long white beard hanging unkempt from his chin. Dark bags under his eyes hinted at sleepless nights or worse, the fatigue of a life lived in constant danger.
Candreva reacted first, his loud voice full of disappointment and disdain. “A cripple? Seriously?” He crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed, and grunted with frustration.
The room grew tense, an uncomfortable silence settling over them. Niko felt uneasy, not just because of Candreva’s blunt reaction but because he knew better than to judge anyone by their appearance. This world was deceptive. Strength came in many forms, and survival here meant adapting to every curveball thrown at you.
Clearing his throat, Niko decided to break the silence. “Are you the owner of the other bed?” His voice was calm, but his mind raced with questions. Who was this man? How had he survived so long, missing an arm in such a brutal world?
The old man turned slightly, his lips unmoving, yet his voice echoed in Niko’s mind. “Yes.”
Niko blinked, startled. Telepathy. It had to be. This was the first time Niko had encountered someone with such a strange, unique skill. His mind buzzed with curiosity, but there was something unnerving about hearing a voice without seeing lips move.
Zheng, however, nearly jumped out of his skin. “Y-You didn’t move your lips!” he stammered, taking a step back.
The old man’s voice filled their heads once more. “Indeed.”
Candreva, still unimpressed, scoffed. “So, you can talk without talking? That’s not exactly… manly.” He flexed his chest again as if to prove his point.
Niko frowned, already growing tired of Candreva’s bravado. His macho posturing might have been humorous in another setting, but in a world where overconfidence could get someone killed, it felt more like a liability.
Zheng, ever practical, stepped in. “Telepathy could be useful. You could warn us of danger without giving away our position. We could use that in the field.”
Niko nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that kind of skill could be invaluable.” He activated [Celestial Probe] on the old man, learning his name and abilities.
[Name: Ivanic Novak]
[Skill: Mind Connection I]
Level: 3
Niko's eyes widened slightly. This man was no pushover. He had survived long enough to reach level 3, a feat that wasn’t easy in this deadly world. Whatever had cost him his arm had clearly been a hard-earned lesson.
Ivanic quietly moved to the bunk above Niko’s and climbed up with surprising ease for someone missing a limb. As he settled in, Candreva, unable to resist, blurted out, “Hey, cripple! How’d you lose the arm anyway?”
The room fell deathly silent. The question hung in the air like a thick fog. Ivanic’s face darkened, and for the first time, his deep, gravelly voice broke through the mental barrier.
“Overconfidence,” he muttered aloud, the bitterness in his voice sending a chill through the room.
Niko felt a shiver run down his spine. The word echoed in his mind like a warning. In this world, overconfidence was a death sentence, and Ivanic’s missing arm was proof.