[You have slain a level 5 crackjaw. ]

[You have slain a level 6 crackjaw. ]

[Name: Griffin Thorne

Age: 18

Race: Human

Calling: Apostle of Greed.

Class: -

Class Skills:-

Gifts: Gift of tongue: Common Verickan

Level: Level 3 (69.8%) -> Level 4 (14.92%)

Rank: F

Statistics:

Physical: 3

Mental: 4

Proprioception: 1

Free points: 1

Soul Essence: 12/12-> 13/13]

Heavily panting and lightly bleeding, Griffin sat on the floor with the wall against his back, warily directing his gaze to the murky canal.

The third crackjaw, the ones whose teeth Griffin had broken with a brutal punch, lay floating on the canal’s surface with one of its eyes rolled inward. The other eye wasn’t something Griffin could see because of his elevated angle, but he was almost certain that the creature was knocked out.

They did have significant advantages in strength, speed and reflexes over him, after all. If they were intelligent on top of it, then he should already have been dead.

The fact that the enraged Crackjaws had leapt out of the canal and given up their home-grown advantage for terrain they weren’t built for, coupled with the clearly unimpressed description the interface had offered him meant that the creatures likely had poor combat instincts.

He found himself wondering if risking sepsis was worth wading into the murky water and ending the crackjaw for good, both for the experience and because he was tired of getting ambushed by these damn alligator-fishes.

Ultimately though, reason won out.

If he didn’t find a way to bandage his wound, acquire a source of food and water and reach civilization, he was dead anyway. There was little reason to give sepsis a head start.

“If I put another point into my physique, will the increase in muscle density intensify the bleeding or slow it?” He mused aloud. “More muscle tissue density would mean easier clotting, but would the forced muscle building increase the strain on my blood vessels and accelerate the bleeding? Gah, I have no real way to tell, do I?” Griffin protested under his breath, realizing that without modern medical equipment he had a near-zero chance of figuring out even the vague basics of how any of it worked.

“As for Proprioception… Not really a word that I’ve seen frequently used. A rough translation means a sense of bodily perception, but that doesn’t really tell me much either. Will my reflexes magically increase or will it make me more sensitive to changes in my own body?” He deliberated for a few moments longer, before shaking his head.

“If the interface wanted to see me fail, it could have easily chosen to withhold those two free points from me and I would’ve died to the fish-alligators. No, this feels a lot more like classical conditioning. Or a shady dude offering free pills behind the local gas station. The first couple of hits were free,” Griffin mused aloud.

“I guess without any bandages or rubbing alcohol, I can’t afford to not explore a possibility that can get my thigh healed. Shit, here we go,” Griffin tried to feign nonchalance as he verbally executed the command.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

[Allotting (1) points to Physical. Confirm Y/N]

“Yes,” Griffin confirmed.

The ‘rip and tear’ process followed by a soothing sensation that felt like healing repeated itself, but Griffin immediately noticed a difference. Both the experiences seemed far more muted compared to the first time he had allotted points, making him wonder if it was because he had allotted less points compared to the first time or if his own body had started to adapt to the process, making it easier on him.

“What exactly, do you think you are doing?” A distinctly unamused feminine voice posed the question to him.

“Oh, now that’s just fucking royal. I’m hallucinating now,” Griffin dryly remarked, clearly unamused by his new predicament.

“No, you are not,” A different voice, one that had far more of a bite to it, replied.

Completely bewildered by the situation, Griffin reflexively found himself getting back onto his feet. He stepped away from the direction he had heard the voices in, pleasantly realizing that the pain in his left thigh was no longer present.

His dagger was held protectively before him as he took in the two individuals that had snuck up on him. The moment he laid eyes on the two young women, the environment itself seemed to change.

Griffin’s mouth immediately felt dry, his pupils dilated and his expression turned grave as he protectively, yet perhaps, equally meaninglessly, held his dagger before him.

It wasn’t just the wispy tendrils of dancing shadows that clung to the short red-haired woman’s plain black robes or the sheer sense of oppression he felt from the other, slightly older, dark-brown haired woman, an elegant ponytail neatly tying her hair.

Neither was it the two seemingly ornamental, golden-hilted swords they had sheathed to their waistbands.

No, it was the presence of an energy in the air that felt entirely foreign to Griffin and it terrified him even more than the thoughts of being tortured in a blacksite.

“So,” The pony-tailed woman asked, an air of composure audible in her stern words. “Who are you and why are you killing the Crackjaws personally placed in the sewers under the direct order of the magistrate?”

“Griffin Thorne,” He replied, his voice strained.

“Griff-in Th-or-ne?” The red-haired woman tried to copy his chosen pronunciation of his own name.

Then, Griffin marveled as a wisp of shadows obscured both her and her compatriot’s mouth, as they exchanged a quick word.

‘Senior Sister Jun, have you ever heard of the Thorne Clan?’

‘No. But there is no fluctuation in his words. I do not think he is lying.’

‘Were we mistaken in our conjecture, then?’

‘Perhaps. Though this makes it even more interesting.’

The shadows disappeared.

“What clan do you belong to, Griffin Thorne?” The pony-tailed woman asked.

“I do not remember,” Griffin replied. “My memories are a jumbled mess, bits and pieces are all I can recall.”

“And yet you remember your name?” The red-haired woman countered, seemingly pressing him just for the sake of it.

“Well, it’s written here, isn’t it?” Griffin gestured to the air before him, mentioning the interface. Despite his pounding heart and the possibility of being killed by the wizards before him, his mind told him that it was a good time to find out if the interface was unique to him or something that was commonplace knowledge.

“The System,” The pony-tailed woman acknowledged. “So you know of it.”

“What’s your calling?” The red-haired woman impatiently asked.

Griffin paused, knowing that the question he was dreading the most had arrived— and far sooner than he had expected it to.

“Look, lady. I’m an amnesiac, not an idiot. I remember enough to know that it’s not something you tell strangers. If that pisses you off, take my head off and be done with it,” Griffin animatedly replied, requiring only a few moments to conclude that he was better off dead than a lab rat for a bunch of alien wizard women.

Who knew, really. Maybe dying this time would mean waking up in Dionysus' palace. A man could dream, after all.

“I apologize for my younger sister’s rudeness,” The ponytailed woman stepped in to salvage the conversation. “My name is Jun-Ra of the Martial Law Sect, a subsidiary of the Yushan Sect. I wish to help you, but it would be easier for me to do that if you could tell us what you remember—- about how you came to be in this situation.”

“Fine,” Griffin relented, though inwardly he was relieved that he wasn’t headed for the pearly gates just yet. He had no idea what the lady’s name, title or hell, what any of it meant, but if she wasn’t going to outright kill him then he might just be able to wrangle his way out of the situation. “But before that, do you perchance have any spare clothes?”