“Welcome to character creation.”
The voice didn’t come from the space around me; it came from within, vibrating in my mind like an echo trapped inside a hollow shell.
I tried to blink, to move, to breathe—but nothing happened. I had no body to command, no limbs to respond to my thoughts. I was simply... aware.
The white expanse stretched endlessly in all directions, featureless and oppressive in its perfection. At its center stood a figure—a woman—working at a glowing terminal. Her silhouette was sharp and defined, unnaturally crisp against the formless void. Her fingers moved swiftly, tapping at keys that emitted faint, pulsing light.
I focused my will, pushing a thought outward, desperate to make sense of this. Where am I?
The question rippled outward, unspoken but undeniable.
The woman turned toward me, her expression serene, unbothered. “You have accepted the invitation to join the multiverse. Currently, you are in character creation. Here, you will build your new self.” Her tone carried the detachment of a machine, unfeeling and absolute.
Accepted. The word rattled through my mind, sharp and invasive. I didn’t accept anything.
The denial clung stubbornly to my consciousness until a memory forced itself to the surface.
The table. The cold metal pressing against my bare skin. The relentless agony as they cut into me, piece by piece. My screams filled the sterile air, echoing back like a twisted chorus of suffering.
I remembered the blood—my blood—pooling beneath me. It ran in rivulets down the table legs, soaking the floor. My body had been reduced to trembling and shallow breaths, barely clinging to consciousness.
And then I saw it.
The blood had reached my pants, soaking into the fabric. My clothing, neatly stacked nearby after they stripped me, still held the crumpled letter shoved into the pocket like a forgotten relic. The dark stain spread across it, saturating the paper, blotting out its cryptic words.
Drop some blood onto this letter.
It wasn’t deliberate. I hadn’t chosen this. My blood had found the letter on its own, as though it had a will of its own, completing the ritual while I lay helpless.
But as I stared at the letter, the edges of the memory twisted. I recalled the faint glow that pulsed from the paper as the blood seeped in, the way the room seemed to still in that moment. The pain in my chest and the sheer terror of that instant had been consumed by something else. Something colder, deeper.
A choice had been made, even if I hadn’t made it consciously.
The woman’s voice dragged me back into the void. “You have accepted the invitation,” she repeated, each word as precise as the last.
No. The denial surged through me, stronger this time. That wasn’t my choice. That wasn’t me.
She tilted her head slightly, as if indulging a child who didn’t understand the rules of the game. “The invitation requires no conscious decision. Your blood carried your intent. Your body spoke for you, even if your mind hesitated.”
Her words cut through me like a blade, slicing apart my protests.
My blood betrayed me.
No—betrayal wasn’t the right word. Beneath the horror, beneath the raw pain of the memory, there was something else. A small, stubborn part of me recognized the truth.
I hadn’t fought it.
Lying on that table, with nothing left but agony and the creeping promise of death, I had wanted this. I had wanted anything but the life I was living. My blood had chosen what I couldn’t bring myself to admit.
The woman gestured toward the glowing terminal, interrupting my spiral of thought. “Now, you will build your new self. Once you complete the process, your journey will begin.” Her voice remained even, devoid of emotion.
Screens materialized around her, filled with shifting shapes and symbols. A humanoid figure formed in the center—a blank canvas, waiting to be filled.
I stared at the figure, the raw truth of my situation settling over me like a heavy shroud. I hadn’t come here by choice, not really. But now that I was here, now that the pain was behind me...
Maybe this wasn’t betrayal.
Maybe this was freedom.
The thought settled uneasily in my mind, too big and too strange to feel real. I wasn’t sure what kind of freedom this was—or what it even meant—but I knew one thing: there was no turning back.
I looked toward the screens, their soft glow drawing my attention like a beacon. Questions churned in my mind. Was this a game? Why was I here? What the hell was going on?
The woman remained silent, her expression calm but distant, like a statue presiding over a ritual. She wasn’t going to answer me—not now. She’d already said enough. Whatever this was, it was for me to figure out.
I turned my focus back to the screens. As if sensing my attention, text materialized, bold and triumphant:
“Welcome to the Multiverse!”
The words shimmered briefly, their celebratory tone almost mocking the enormity of what they meant. Another message scrolled beneath, its tone unnervingly cheerful:
“You have been selected to earn the chance to lead your world into the induction phase of the multiverse.”
My world? Lead it? I didn’t know what that meant, but the words carried weight. This wasn’t just about me. There was something bigger here—something far beyond anything I could imagine.
More text appeared, precise and deliberate:
“You have shown an incredible will to live, protect, and fight. These traits are exactly what we look for in potential candidates.”
I couldn’t deny the truth in those words. Will to live. Fight. Protect. They weren’t just meaningless phrases—they were me. Once, I had stood tall, strong, and unbroken. I had fought for what mattered, protected those who couldn’t protect themselves, and made choices that saved lives. They weren’t easy choices. Some of them haunted me. But I had been proud of them. Proud of the man I was.
Somewhere along the way, though, the weight of it all—the pain, the sacrifice, the exhaustion—had crushed me. I’d given so much to others that there was nothing left for myself. Piece by piece, my strength had eroded until I barely recognized the person I used to be.
I was proud of the lives I’d saved. Proud of the times I’d stood tall against the darkness. But deep down, I knew there was more I needed. Saving others wasn’t enough anymore. I wanted to save myself, too.
That wasn’t selfish. That was survival.
The screen flickered again, as if responding to the unspoken resolve taking shape within me. The words glowed brighter, almost urging me forward, like they understood.
“We have arranged this area for you to build your new body. Test it out before accepting. Once you finalize your choice, you will not be able to change it again. This is our gift to you.”
I let the words sink in. My new body. My new self. This wasn’t just a fresh start—it was a chance to reclaim something I’d thought I’d lost forever. Strength. Wholeness. A version of me that wasn’t defined by pain or exhaustion.
For the first time in a long time, I felt something stir within me. Hope.
I couldn’t help but smile internally as I eagerly looked toward the next screen. The options unfolded before me like a tantalizing buffet of possibilities. My mind buzzed with anticipation.
The first screen caught my attention immediately:
Race.
“What?” The word echoed in my thoughts. I didn’t have to be human. That simple fact hit me harder than I expected. The possibilities filled me with a strange mix of excitement and apprehension. Sure, leading my world as something non-human might complicate things, but the sheer novelty of it was impossible to ignore.
The list of races appeared, accompanied by brief descriptions and their respective advantages:
* Human: Balanced across the board. No glaring weaknesses, but no standout strengths either. A good choice for versatility.
* Elf: Masters of finesse and precision. Bonuses to Agility, Perception, and Mana Control. Weak in physical endurance.
* Dwarf: Stalwart and tough. High Endurance and Crafting Skill, but slower due to lower Agility.
* Orc: Brutes with unmatched physical power. Significant boosts to Strength and Endurance but lower Intelligence and Wisdom.
* Beastkin: Agile and instinctive, with heightened Senses and Stealth capabilities. Slightly lower Charisma.
* Demon: Dark and charismatic. Strong bonuses to Charisma, Magic, and Willpower, but they are polarizing to others.
* Celestial: Radiant and revered. High Wisdom, Healing Ability, and Charisma, but physically fragile.
* Avian: Graceful, winged beings with bonuses to Agility, Perception, and Flight. Lower Strength than most.
* Lich: Undead with vast knowledge of death magic. High Intelligence, Mana Control, and Willpower, but penalties to Charisma and vulnerability to holy energies.
* Dragonkin: Draconic hybrids boasting significant bonuses to Strength, Endurance, and Elemental Resistance. Slower to develop abilities.
The options went on, each more intriguing than the last. Each race came with unique advantages and challenges, and I couldn’t help but feel drawn to some more than others. An orc’s raw strength tempted me for a moment, but so did the elegance and wisdom of a celestial. A dragonkin’s elemental resistance sounded incredibly useful—but was I ready to commit to scales?
The screen expanded as I selected the Elf option to explore further. A side panel appeared, detailing additional attributes and traits:
* Dexterity: A more specific attribute tied to fine motor skills, accuracy, and ranged combat.
* Mana Control: The efficiency of using magical energy.
* Perception: A measure of sensory awareness—seeing, hearing, and sensing threats before they happen.
* Willpower: Mental resilience and focus, vital for resisting magic or enduring mental strain.
There were subcategories and complexities I hadn’t even considered. Each race wasn’t just a package deal; it came with its own ecosystem of strengths, weaknesses, and potential.
Curiosity piqued, I clicked on Demon next. The attributes shifted dramatically:
* Charisma: Sky-high, enabling persuasive speech and commanding presence.
* Magic Affinity: A natural inclination toward dark and destructive magics.
* Social Penalty: A unique drawback—people instinctively distrust demons unless you overcome it through sheer force of personality.
I backed out, cycling through a few more options. Each race’s attributes were so different that they almost seemed to dictate what kind of life you’d lead. Choosing one felt more significant than I’d anticipated.
Appearance.
Once I forced myself to move on, the appearance screen felt almost comforting in its familiarity. Sliders and toggles let me adjust everything: height, build, hair color, eye shape, even details like scars and tattoos. It was the same as countless video games I’d played, but knowing this was going to be me made it feel different.
I toyed with the settings, trying to strike a balance between who I’d been and who I wanted to be. My new self didn’t need to look entirely like the old me, but I wanted some connection to the person I used to be proud of.
Attributes.
This was where things got serious. Another screen lit up, displaying a grid of primary stats:
* Strength: Raw physical power. Essential for melee combat and heavy lifting.
* Agility: Speed, reflexes, and flexibility. Vital for dodging, climbing, and quick strikes.
* Endurance: Stamina and durability. The ability to take a hit and keep going. Governs health.
* Dexterity: Precision and control. Ideal for archery, fine crafting, and sleight of hand.
* Intelligence: Problem-solving, logic, magical knowledge, and mana pool. Crucial for spellcasting.
* Wisdom: Intuition, judgement, and decision-making. Helps with strategy and spiritual connection.
* Charisma: Presence and influence. The power to lead, persuade, or inspire others.
* Willpower: Mental fortitude and focus. Shields against mental attacks and aids in magic resistance.
* Mana Control: Efficiency and effectiveness in using magic. The more control, the more devastating or precise your spells.
* Perception: Awareness of your surroundings. Great for spotting threats, tracking, or exploring.
A small pool of points appeared in the corner—20 free points in total plus a starting 5 in each stat. My race choice would influence how I spent them, as each race came with bonuses and penalties. For example, orcs received +5 Strength and Endurance, but -3 to Intelligence and Wisdom, while elves gained +3 Agility, Dexterity, and Mana Control, but -2 Endurance.
I stared at the numbers, my mind churning with possibilities. Should I double down on a single strength, becoming a force of nature in one area, or should I aim for balance? My eyes lingered on Strength, Endurance, and Willpower, the stats that spoke to the fighter I used to be. But Charisma tugged at me too—an attribute that could help me inspire others and build alliances.
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This wasn’t just a game. This was my life, my second chance. Every point I allocated would shape the person I would become.
I grinned internally as I began adjusting the stats, tinkering with combinations, and testing how they felt in simulations. The screens adapted to my decisions, offering scenarios based on my choices. As I shifted a point from Agility to Strength, the simulation shifted: I could see myself overpowering an enemy with raw force but struggling to dodge a flurry of attacks. When I added to Intelligence, I watched a simulated version of myself weave intricate spells, calculating outcomes with precision.
Time seemed to blur as I experimented, each choice pulling me closer to the person I wanted to be. The person I needed to be. This wasn’t just about survival—it was about creating someone who could thrive.
When I tried to move to the next section, Skills, a notification appeared “Please select your race, appearance, and place you attribute points before continuing.”
I paused, staring at the screen, the weight of the decision pressing down on me. My mind drifted back to the anime, stories, and games that had carried me through the long, dragging years of my life. I envisioned the heroes in those worlds—the ones who had inspired me, made me feel alive, and pushed me to dream of something bigger.
They all had one thing in common. Every single one of them stood strong against the darkness. They didn’t back down, no matter the odds. They had overwhelming willpower, unimaginable strength, and an unwavering belief that they could make a difference. But there was another thing they all shared—every one of them had moments where they were broken. Where they needed someone to save them.
That thought lingered, cold and heavy in my mind. I had once dreamed of being that kind of hero. I had wanted to be the one who sacrificed everything for others. And, in some ways, I had been. I’d fought, I’d endured, and I’d saved lives. But it hadn’t been like the stories. There was no rallying moment, no miraculous recovery. The hurt wasn’t something you just overcame. It was a weight that sank deeper into your bones, a constant reminder that being a hero wasn’t about glory—it was about pain.
And now? Now I knew that wasn’t the kind of hero I wanted to be anymore. I couldn’t afford to be. I didn’t want to be the one who stood alone on the front lines, taking blow after blow until I fell. I didn’t want to be the one who needed to be saved.
I needed strength, yes, but not just to protect others. I needed it to protect myself. To build a life where I wasn’t shattered every time I tried to do something good.
The heroes I admired had stood tall, but they’d also paid the price for it. They’d been reduced, torn down, and then rescued. I... I guess I’d been rescued too, in a way. This was my restart. My chance to rebuild. It had just happened slower—and more painfully—than it ever did in the stories.
I stared at the glowing figure on the screen, an empty outline waiting for me to fill it in. If I was going to step forward into this new life, I needed to be smart about it. I couldn’t just take the obvious path, the one that led to more sacrifice and more pain.
Yes, I needed strength, but it wouldn’t be the kind that put me in the spotlight. I would protect from the back, unseen and unknown. I would be the hero who prevented crises before they happened. The one who didn’t need to be saved because no one ever realized I was fighting in the first place.
I took a deep breath, or at least the mental equivalent of one, and turned my focus back to the screen. This was my moment. My chance to decide what kind of hero I would become. The kind of person I would build myself into.
I scrolled back through the races, and the one that kept catching my eye was Demon. Dark and charismatic. Strong bonuses to Charisma, Magic, and Willpower—but polarizing to others. They weren’t just creatures of power; they could lead from the back, pulling strings and shaping events. They were strong. They could be heroes too.
The more I thought about it, the more it called to me. This didn’t mean I had to be evil. Demons weren’t inherently bound to darkness—not in the way I saw them. I could redefine what it meant to carry that power. After all, the message said I could test everything out before finalizing.
With a deep breath—or the thought of one—I selected Demon. The screen responded immediately, shifting to appearance, but I barely glanced at it. My focus was already on attributes. I allocated my points, splitting them between Charisma, Willpower, and Magic. Each choice felt deliberate, like I was sculpting the person I needed to become.
As soon as I finished, another message appeared:
"Do you wish to test this before finalizing?"
The question carried more weight than it should have, even though I knew this was just part of the process. Testing meant I could walk away if it didn’t feel right. But deep down, I already knew my answer.
“Yes,” I thought firmly.
The screens began to dissolve, their light folding inward like paper crumpling into itself. The figure on the display—the shell of who I might become—shimmered, radiating a soft glow that seemed to reach out to me. I focused on it, drawn by the promise of strength and freedom from pain.
As I directed my will toward it, the figure pulsed and expanded. A surge of energy swept over me, tangible and undeniable. My very essence seemed to shift and solidify, as if I were being reforged into something entirely new. The exhaustion, the agony, the heaviness—they all fell away, replaced by clarity, vitality, and a raw, untamed power.
And then, I noticed it—absence.
The absence of pain.
I didn’t dare move at first. I stood still, waiting for the familiar stab in my back, the sharp jolt that accompanied even the smallest motion. But nothing came. Slowly, hesitantly, I turned my head. No pain. I flexed my fingers, rolled my shoulders. Still nothing. I took a step forward, then another, and felt no resistance, no burning ache. It was real. It was gone.
Relief surged through me, so overwhelming it left me unsteady. I dropped to my knees, not because I had to, but because I could. For the first time in years, my body wasn’t a prison. My breath hitched, and a laugh bubbled out of me—a raw, unrestrained sound that echoed in the vast emptiness.
I stood again, testing my balance, stretching my limbs, marveling at the lightness of it all. It was like I’d been carrying a mountain on my back for years, and now, someone had finally lifted it. Tears stung the corners of my eyes, unbidden but welcome. For once, they weren’t from pain.
A flicker of motion behind me caught my attention. Turning, I spotted something swaying gently in the air. A tail.
I stared, then gave it a tentative mental nudge. It curled and uncurled, as if it had always been part of me. A smile broke from my lips, unbidden and full of wonder. “A tail? Seriously?” The absurdity of it only made me laugh harder—a laugh that wasn’t tinged with bitterness for once.
I turned back to the woman at the terminal. She was watching me, her face calm, her gaze razor-sharp, as if evaluating every inch of my transformation. Her piercing eyes felt as if they could see straight through my newfound strength, appraising not just my power but my potential.
When our eyes met, she rose smoothly to her feet. The way she moved was deliberate, each motion precise and unnerving in its fluidity.
With a fluid motion, she reached into the air and pulled out a massive bastard sword. The blade gleamed unnaturally, catching the light in strange, shifting patterns. It was far too large for her slender frame, yet she swung it effortlessly. Each motion was precise, calculated, and brimming with expertise.
As she began to walk toward me, her footsteps echoed softly in the vast space, each step deliberate and purposeful. The weight of her presence seemed to grow with every moment, pressing down like an invisible force.
“Wow! How did you pull that sword out of nowhere?” I whistled in astonishment, my curiosity outweighing my caution.
She paused, resting the tip of the massive blade on the ground and leaning on it casually, as if it weighed nothing. “Just think ‘Inventory,’ and it will appear. Right now, it’s limited to starting equipment,” she explained with an unnerving calmness, as though this were the most mundane thing in the world.
Something clicked in my mind at her words. I closed my eyes—or at least willed them shut—and thought, Inventory. Immediately, a translucent interface blinked into view, hovering before me. My breath hitched.
The “starting equipment” wasn’t what I expected. Row after row of weapons stretched before me—swords, axes, hammers, bows. Each one was detailed, glinting with a sense of purpose. Some were simple steel, practical and unassuming. Others glowed faintly with energy, their edges humming like they were alive.
I scrolled through the list, my hand hovering over each option. A sword? No, too obvious. An axe? Too bulky. A bow? I needed to stand my ground. Nothing clicked until my eyes fell on a spear.
It was plain—a smooth wooden shaft with a steel tip honed to a razor’s edge. No glow, no hum. It didn’t demand attention like the others, but it called to me. Something about its simplicity, its precision, felt... balanced. Right.
Without hesitation, I selected it. The spear materialized in my hand, and I almost dropped it in surprise. It was lighter than I expected, yet sturdy. I adjusted my grip, feeling the smooth wood against my palms. The weight distribution was perfect, and as I shifted it experimentally, it felt like an extension of my arm.
The woman’s sharp eyes flicked to the spear, and for the first time, her expression shifted slightly. “Interesting choice,” she murmured, her tone clipped but not unkind. She straightened, lifting her sword with practiced ease. “Let’s see if you can use it.”
Before I could respond, she lunged.
Her blade sliced through the air faster than I could process. My instinct was to parry, but her strength and precision overwhelmed me instantly. I didn’t even feel the impact—just the suffocating darkness that followed.
Then, I was back.
The screens reappeared, glowing faintly. My breaths came fast and shallow as I tried to process what had just happened. What the hell was that?
Her voice echoed, calm and resolute. “Again.”
The battlefield reformed around us, her silhouette already in motion. She came at me without hesitation, her sword arcing toward my side. I thrust the spear clumsily to block, but her blade knocked it aside effortlessly. The last thing I saw was her blade descending. Darkness. Reset.
“Again.”
The cycle began. Strike. Parry. Die. Each reset, I returned faster but just as helpless. At first, my frustration blinded me. I rushed her, swinging wildly, trying to overpower her, but it was like fighting the wind. She was faster, stronger, smarter. But after a dozen resets, something changed.
I started to notice things—the way her stance shifted before an attack, the rhythm of her strikes, the feints she used to draw me in. My eyes adjusted to her speed, my mind sharpening with every clash.
And then there was my tail.
At first, it was a hindrance, constantly swaying and throwing off my balance. It twitched involuntarily, responding to my emotions more than my intent. Once, during a reset, it knocked over a rock I hadn’t seen, tripping me mid-lunge. But instead of cursing it, I focused on it. If I could control my tail, it could become an asset.
One reset, I deliberately practiced with it. I swung the spear with one hand and used my tail to sweep the ground behind me, steadying my movements. Another time, I used it to flick a loose rock at her feet, creating a momentary distraction. Each reset brought me closer to making it a seamless part of my strategy.
She noticed, of course. After I successfully used my tail to stabilize a dodge and counter with a quick jab, she tilted her head and muttered, “Good.” But her sword came down again. Darkness. Reset.
It wasn’t just my tail or the spear—I was changing. My desperation faded, replaced by cold, deliberate focus. I began to allocate my points differently. More into agility to match her speed. More into willpower to sharpen my reactions and keep me calm. I started treating every fight as a puzzle, testing new strategies with each reset.
I baited her into overextending with feints. I forced her into tighter spaces to limit her range. I even began incorporating the terrain into my tactics, using rocks and uneven ground to slow her movements.
During one reset, she lunged toward me as always. But this time, I was ready. I sidestepped, using my tail to sweep her shin just enough to disrupt her rhythm. Before she could recover, I thrust the spear forward. The tip stopped inches from her chest.
“Got you!” I grinned, triumphant.
Her eyes narrowed, and in a blur, she twisted free. Her blade arced toward me again, forcing me to retreat. “You’re learning,” she said, her voice cool but laced with the faintest hint of approval.
The dance continued. Each clash of weapons sent sparks flying, each movement deliberate and calculated. My spear became an extension of my body, its reach and precision giving me an edge I hadn’t expected. My tail, once awkward, was now a weapon in its own right—whipping, stabilizing, even distracting.
For the first time, I wasn’t just surviving. I was fighting.
And for the first time in years, I felt... whole.
I fought relentlessly until I had complete control over my new body. Time was meaningless here—no hunger, no thirst, no fatigue. There was only the unending rhythm of battle. Each clash, every reset, and every failure became a lesson.
I adjusted my points countless times, fine-tuning every detail until the demon form felt like a natural extension of who I was. I never considered testing another race. This body, this power—it felt perfect, as if it had been waiting for me all along. My appearance, on the other hand, underwent several revisions. Adjusting my height, weight, and even the length of my tail became another exercise in optimization. It wasn’t about vanity; I didn’t care how I looked. All I wanted was for my body to be as effective, as deadly, as possible.
The fights were grueling. I lost far more often than I won, but every reset sharpened me. My spear, clumsy and awkward at first, became a trusted companion. My tail, once a distraction, transformed into a weapon, a counterbalance, and a tool that I wielded with growing precision.
Through it all, the sword master remained silent, her presence unshaken. She spoke only when necessary—short commands, clipped observations—but her every movement carried purpose. Her strikes were relentless, her precision unmatched. She wasn’t just teaching me how to fight; she was forcing me to become a fighter.
I never learned her name. It wasn’t for lack of curiosity, but my mind was too consumed with other things—timing, strategy, footwork, and mastering my newfound abilities. Her identity felt secondary to her purpose.
She rarely smiled, but when she did, it was like the world shifted. Those fleeting moments—when I executed something remarkable or surprised her with a clever counter—became their own kind of reward. Her smiles weren’t bright or broad, just subtle curves of her lips or faint flickers of approval in her eyes. They marked milestones in my progress and reminded me that, even in this endless cycle of combat, I was moving forward.
The fights began to change. At first, her victories were absolute, her blade cutting through me with mechanical efficiency. But over time, the gap between us narrowed. I started to anticipate her movements, counter her strikes, and occasionally force her onto the defensive.
There were moments when I thought I’d finally bested her—when my spear grazed her or my tail disrupted her balance. But she always recovered, her experience outpacing my improvements.
“You’re learning,” she said once, after I managed to disarm her briefly. Her tone was as neutral as ever, but beneath it, I heard something new—pride, or perhaps satisfaction.
That was all the encouragement I needed.
I didn’t just learn how to fight. I learned how to think, to adapt, and to plan several steps ahead. She taught me that brute strength was useless without precision and that recklessness was a weakness to exploit. Each reset was another chance to refine myself, to chip away at my flaws and replace them with something stronger.
The time I spent here—however long it truly was—changed me. I wasn’t the same person who had stumbled into this place, broken and desperate. I was becoming someone new. Someone whole.
Eventually, it felt like it was time to move on.
I took one last look at myself before finalizing. I was fairly tall, but not so tall that it drew unnecessary attention. My build was lean, balancing strength and speed in equal measure. My features were sharp but understated—human enough to blend in if needed.
The differences were subtle but unmistakable. Small, curved horns peeked through my hair, barely noticeable unless someone looked closely. My pointed tail swayed lazily behind me, as much a part of me now as my arms or legs. Intricate tattoos adorned my skin, glowing faintly in places, marking me as something otherworldly. A good cloak, I thought, would hide most of it. I could move through crowds without turning heads, disappearing when necessary. That was important. I didn’t want to be the kind of hero who stood out for the wrong reasons.
Finally, I turned my focus back to the screen, reviewing the numbers one last time. My starting stats reflected the journey I’d taken here—every point carefully placed, every decision deliberate. I hadn’t poured everything into physical attributes, even though they might have made me a better fighter. This wasn’t about brute force; it was about balance and versatility. I needed to be ready for whatever this world had in store.
All stats began at 5—the universal baseline for every race. As a Demon, I received the following racial bonuses:
* +2 Charisma: A natural magnetism, though often laced with unease.
* +1 Willpower: A stubborn, unyielding mental resilience.
* +1 Mana Control: An innate connection to magical energies, offering more precision and efficiency.
Of course, these strengths came with a price. The universal stigma of being a demon wasn’t something I could ignore. Distrust from other races would shadow me everywhere I went. This was more than a quirk—it would shape the way I navigated the world and the relationships I tried to build.
I pulled up my status screen (yes, I had one!) and double-checked everything. The numbers stared back at me, each a testament to the choices I had made, representing the foundation of the person I was becoming:
Name: Kale Orrmons
Race: Demon
Level: 1
* Strength: 6 (5 base + 1 allocated)
* Agility: 6 (5 base + 1 allocated)
* Endurance: 6 (5 base + 1 allocated)
* Dexterity: 6 (5 base + 1 allocated)
* Intelligence: 8 (5 base + 3 allocated)
* Wisdom: 11 (5 base + 5 allocated)
* Charisma: 12 (5 base + 2 racial + 5 allocated)
* Willpower: 8 (5 base + 1 racial + 2 allocated)
* Mana Control: 7 (5 base + 1 racial + 1 allocated)
* Perception: 5 (baseline, no allocation)
Each number carried weight, representing not only my strengths but also the vulnerabilities I chose to accept. I was stepping into this new world not as the strongest or fastest, but as someone who could adapt, think ahead, and rise to meet any challenge.
With everything in place, I hovered over the final option on the screen. I felt a strange mix of fear and excitement. This wasn’t just about numbers or stats—it was a declaration of who I was choosing to become. The weight of it pressed against me, but it wasn’t unwelcome. It was purpose.
“Finalize?”
“Yes.”
The moment I confirmed, the world shifted. The vast emptiness disappeared, and I braced myself for what lay ahead. My journey was about to begin.