Lasron awoke to a dark, cramped room, the thick, musty, foul stench assaulting his nostrils, forcing his eyes shut. It was the signature odor of the slave district - a concoction of sweat, long-accumulated grime, urine, and an invisible yet palpable despair that clung to every corner. Last night, he’d slept again in an uncomfortable position on the cold, hard earth, cushioned only by a thin, ragged layer of straw.

  His body, already weary from forced labor, was even stiffer and more pained. His right leg throbbed, the old wound from a beating by Kael, the slave driver - punishment for accidentally spilling a bucket of dirty water yesterday - tormenting him again. The slightest movement sent a searing pain shooting through his skull. The bruises on his body, new ones overlapping old, a grotesque patchwork of purples and sickly yellows, had become almost a part of him since before he could even comprehend the injustice of his life.

  He struggled to turn, peering out the small, narrow window - in reality, just a crooked hole in the cracked mud wall where the weak, dim light of dawn strained to penetrate the rotten wooden bars. A new day. Yesterday had been brutal - beatings, starvation. Today would likely be no different. Lasron knew it. Every day of his twelve short years had been the same, an endless cycle of suffering, humiliation, and resignation.

  Orphaned so young his memories of his parents were but hazy fragments, sold into slavery, he’d never known a glimmer of hope for a brighter future. If he didn’t work hard enough, if he didn’t "contribute" enough to his masters, he’d be beaten and starved. He knew that feeling all too well - the stomach-gnawing hunger that felt like a thousand needles, the burning sting of leather whips on tender flesh, and the cold, contemptuous glares of those who believed they had the right to rule, to decide the fate of others.

  Lasron dragged himself heavily from the stiff straw bed, leaning against the damp wall to stand, his exhausted body threatening to collapse. His mind was foggy, his heart heavy with dark thoughts. Yet, even in moments like these, a tiny, flickering ember of hope, like the last spark in a blizzard, stubbornly glowed in his young mind. He’d overheard stories - from old slaves who had awakened countless seasons in vain, or from the boisterous bragging of the slave drivers themselves as they drank after a day of tormenting their charges.

  Stories of "Awakening Day," when children who reached the age of twelve - the age they said destiny’s door would open - would be tested and receive a status screen. He didn’t fully understand what it meant. His world was too small, confined to this stinking slave district and the filthy streets where he scrounged for a meager existence. But what he knew, what he clung to, was that maybe, just maybe, if his status screen was high enough, if he had good "stats," things might change. He wouldn’t be a slave anymore. He wouldn’t have to live this dark, meaningless life. Perhaps he’d be called by his name, instead of "brat," "useless," or "dog." Perhaps he’d have a real, filling meal, not rotten scraps scavenged from the masters’ garbage.

  But then, the ingrained fear would creep back. It could all be a meaningless ritual, designed to sow false hope among the slaves, to keep them from revolting, to make them endure. An empty promise that he, a weak, orphaned child, could never attain. The constant dread that his stats would be laughably low always haunted him. What then? Would he be deemed utterly worthless, cast into places even more horrific than this slave district? Or simply beaten to death for his uselessness?

  He slung his tattered cloth bag, the only thing he could call a possession, over his shoulder and trudged out of his prison-like room. Other slave children emerged from adark corners, their faces etched with exhaustion, dejection, and resignation. Each had a task assigned the night before: some to petty theft in the market, others to swindle the gullible, and some to even more demeaning jobs.

  Each child was a sad story, but they rarely shared, for everyone carried their own burdens, and in this place, empathy was a non-existent luxury. The group knew the rules. Fail to bring back enough coin, enough food for the overseers, and they wouldn't eat, or they'd be beaten even more savagely. Lasron expected nothing more than to scrounge a few paltry coins, a dry crust of bread, just to survive another day. That was all he could hope for. Sometimes, he wondered if there was any point in living like this, but then the survival instinct would flare, stronger than any despairing thought.

  Walking the familiar, potholed path leading to the West Market, where the destitute and small-time merchants gathered, Lasron tried to blend into the crowd, hoping to avoid attention. Futile. A cold glare from Grak, a slave driver whose long scar across his face made him look even more ferocious, landed on him.

  "You little rat, planning to steal again?" Grak, a burly overseer with beefy shoulders, always clutching a bullwhip, bellowed, his voice as hoarse as a bull’s roar. Lasron just bowed his head, shoulders instinctively hunching, trying to make himself as small as possible, and walked on silently. He didn’t dare resist, didn’t even dare look up. Every beating reminded him of the nights spent shivering in the biting cold, curled up in utter loneliness and despair. He couldn't let that happen again. Those memories were like needles pricking his skin, reminding him of his lowly place in this cruel world.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Suddenly, as Lasron was hunched over, dodging puddles of filth and the prying eyes of passersby, a strange, unprecedented sensation washed over him. He felt an inexplicable energy, both pleasantly warm and terrifyingly cold, spreading through his entire body, from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. Though he didn't understand what was happening, a peculiar feeling overcame him, making everything around him seem to blur.

  The market’s cacophony, the stench of garbage, the curses - all seemed to recede, replaced by an eerie silence. Lasron swayed, his head spinning, then abruptly stumbled. He desperately grabbed a wooden crate of discarded vegetables by the roadside to steady himself, his heart pounding like a war drum, as if he were teetering on the brink of something terrible, a change he both craved and feared with all his being.

  A faint, pale blue, ethereal screen, like the surface of a tranquil moonlit lake, materialized directly before his eyes. Only Lasron could see it. Ancient, mystical characters slowly formed in the space before him, as if being etched into his very mind, making his heart feel like it would leap from his chest. He held his breath, trying to decipher each character, though his head was still reeling.

  [Strength (STR): 2

  Agility (AGI): 3

  Intelligence (INT): 2.

  Stamina (STA): 3

  Total Stats: 10]

  Ten points. This final number was like a cold death sentence for Lasron. A number so low, so laughably pathetic, it offered him no hope, not even a flicker, for a better life. Despair, like an invisible hand, squeezed his heart, threatening to stop it.

  "It can't be!" he thought, his inner voice screaming in silence. "Is the System mistaken? There must be an error!" But nothing changed. His stats were 10, unchangeable, unsalvageable. The screen coldly displayed the cruel numbers, offering no hint of error or mercy.

  The ground beneath him seemed to sway, and he collapsed amidst the curious crowd that was beginning to gather. Whispers and curious, contemptuous gazes turned towards him. A few even snickered. All hope within him died, vanishing like a soap bubble. He’d heard stories of children with high stats, chosen to become great warriors, sought after by noble families, their lives transformed into a glorious new chapter. And he’d also heard of those with stats as low as his, deemed worthless, not even as valuable as a useful animal, left to their fate or cruelly discarded. Now, he didn't dare dream of that anymore.

  The stories he'd heard of children with high stats now echoed in his mind, bitter and sour. "Overseer Aris’s son, that fat kid, got 35 points. They say he’ll be sent to the city's military academy, a bright future ahead." "Overseer Borg complained a new slave he bought only had 20 points, called him trash, worth only a few silver coins." He remembered every word, every snippet of conversation. And now, he was less than "trash." Shame and humiliation rose, a bitter lump in his throat, making him want to cry but unable to.

  Lasron tried to look at the screen, his eyes blurring with unshed tears, searching for a glimmer of hope, an escape, however small. The options "Difficulty D Challenge," "Difficulty C Challenge," "Difficulty B Challenge," "Difficulty A Challenge" were all grayed out, unselectable, deepening his despair. They were like doors slammed shut in his face, cold and merciless, sealing his fate. But then, a single line of text, at the very bottom, suddenly glowed with an eerie light. A blood-red, haunting luminescence that sent a chill down his spine, a creepy sensation crawling over his skin.

  Difficulty S+ Challenge

  What was that? S+? He rubbed his eyes, thinking he’d misread. How could there be a challenge with such difficulty? He’d never heard of it, not even once. In the stories he'd heard, S-rank difficulty was already legendary, a trial reserved for the most exceptional geniuses among tens of thousands, those considered favored by the gods, destined to become pillars of the world. So, S+… how much more terrifying could it be? Was it a challenge for those who wished to die? Or a special punishment, a malicious joke by the System for outcasts, for the worthless like him?

  Lasron stared at the sole option, feeling his hand tremble uncontrollably. He had no other choice. It was the only path open to him, even though he knew it might - no, it would - lead to a painful and ignominious death. But he had nothing left to lose. Was his current life any different from a slow death? Beaten, starved, despised, a life worse than death. This decision wasn’t a choice, but an imposition by fate itself, or perhaps a cruel jest from a System he couldn't comprehend.

  He had no hope left. Only utter despair and the reckless abandon of a cornered animal. His hand trembled as he slowly reached out, touching the "Difficulty S+ Challenge" text, which glowed with a sinister light.

  The instant his finger touched the screen, a strange sensation, like an electric shock, shot up his spine, as if something, something deeply hidden within him, had just been activated. A cold, sharp "ding" resonated in Lasron’s mind, like the sound of a heavy, rusted gate groaning open after centuries of neglect.

  Lasron didn’t understand what was happening, but he knew that from this moment on, his life - whether short or long, glorious or shameful - would never be the same. The darkness of the S+ challenge seemed to swallow him whole, and he didn’t know if he would ever see sunlight again, not even the faint light of this slave district.