—JAY—

  The moon, a sliver of cold bone in the inky canvas overhead, offered no answers.

  Only a stark, indifferent light that pooled in the clearing outside the cave, mocking the suffocating darkness within.

  It had become my nightly escape.

  Three days since we’d stumbled into this damp refuge, trading one form of confinement for another. Three days of stale air, recycled anxieties, and the persistent, grinding certainty that our luck was a currency we were rapidly exhausting.

  The cave was a masterclass in forced intimacy—like being trapped in a damp, rocky group therapy session with no exits and too many bodily noises. Lorens and Lyra had staked out the only semi-private alcove, separated from the rest of us by a blanket that had clearly lost the will to block sound decades ago.

  Their... reunion on night one had been passionate enough to qualify as a minor seismic event. D, bless his emotionally incontinent soul, had actually sniffled and mumbled something about, "So this is what it feels like to be NTR’ed." Meanwhile, Z, from his corner, declared that their rhythmic moaning was messing with his "sleeping circle's harmonic flow"—whatever that meant.

  My own contribution was to silently wish them both a swift and satisfying conclusion so the rest of us could get some damn sleep. Now, a fragile peace had settled, punctuated only by D’s occasional whimpers and Z’s talent for snoring like a dying bear.

  Yaaawn.

  So yeah—I had to get myself the hell away from that cave.

  Under the open sky, with Lyra’s half-melted crayon map of Solmara spread across a flattish rock, my thoughts finally had enough oxygen to function properly.

  The escape itself? A chaotic success.

  In the same way jumping out of a burning carriage and landing in a swamp counts as “success.”

  We lived. Barely.

  The System, ever the cryptic asshole, had marked the moment with its usual post-mortem poetry.

  That quest notification…

  ‘Fly, You Fools.’

  Objective 1: Escape Oakhaven. Completed.

  Logical enough.

  Objective 2: Take Arian with you (Optional). Failed.

  Who in the blazes was Arian?

  Had there been another prisoner back in that miserable jail, someone overlooked in the panic of our exit?

  The System, naturally, offered no clarification. Just a blunt, glowing FAILED.

  I rubbed at my temple, the phantom sting of cold water and blood still clinging to the memory. Another loose end in a tapestry woven entirely from them.

  And the timing of the notification itself...

  I leaned back, the rock at my spine uncomfortably jagged, and exhaled through my nose. That damn message had popped into my vision mid-panic, while I was thrashing in a freezing current, lungs half-full of river, with those demonic hounds baying for a second course.

  Why then?

  I nudged a small stone off the edge of the rock, watched it tumble into the grass below. Plink. Plink.

  Why not the moment we cleared the walls? Or after we reached this sorry excuse for a safehouse?

  Was it automated? A trigger based on distance? Time elapsed?

  Or was it deliberate? A calculated distraction, or just the System’s latest attempt to mess with us?

  Incompetence or malice—with this System, that line was perpetually blurred.

  The Optional tag suggested no immediate penalty beyond the loss of whatever reward ‘Arian’ might have represented.

  Information? An ally? A valuable item?

  I clenched my jaw. Impossible to know. Just another missed variable, filed under Potential Future Complications.

  Still... forty experience points. Enough, apparently, to push us over some invisible threshold.

  Level 2.

  I scratched at the edge of my palm absently, frowning at the silence in my vision.

  No progress bar. No handy percentage ticking upward toward the next arbitrary milestone. Just vibes and trauma.

  Did we simply wait for the System to condescend with another notification whenever it decided we’d earned enough participation trophies?

  How much XP did Level 3 require? A hundred? A thousand?

  What actions even granted significant XP beyond near-death combat or fulfilling its vague directives?

  Another layer of obfuscation.

  Another way the System maintained control—by withholding the fundamental rules of its own game.

  Infuriating.

  Frustration wouldn’t provide answers.

  Data might.

  I flexed my right hand, the tattooed 'J' stark black against my skin in the moonlight. Status.

  [J - Level 2]

  Designation: Subject J-3D4H

  Health Points (HP): 50/50

  Stamina Points (SP): 50/50

  Mana Points (MP): 119/119

  Attributes:

  Strength (STR): 10

  Dexterity (DEX): 10

  Constitution (CON): 10

  Intelligence (INT): 17 [↑]

  Wisdom (WIS): 14 [↑]

  Charisma (CHA): 11 [↑]

  Skills:

  Passive Skills:

  - Serpent's Tongue

  [Once per day, you may issue a single, simple verbal command...]

  My attribute allocation had been precise.

  Intelligence and Wisdom—clarity, strategy.

  Charisma—a bitter pill, but a necessary one. Manipulating others was, regrettably, a survival tool as much as any weapon.

  Did putting points into Intelligence actually make me smarter?

  Or was it just a number, something the System used for hidden calculations? Maybe it helped me resist mental effects, or sped up spell-learning—if that even applied to me.

  I shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of how badly I needed to piss. The dull pressure in my lower abdomen was distracting, but I tried to focus.

  The thoughts in my head… they felt sharper. More focused than they had been in the disorienting haze of the forest.

  But was that the System’s influence? Or just the meager food, marginally better rest, and the constant buzz of mortal peril sharpening my instincts?

  I pressed my hand to my stomach, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling.

  The alternative—that this arbitrary point allocation could actually change my mind—was unsettling.

  I couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. Not even what was real.

  For now, I had to treat these stats as abstract metrics—potential capacities, not inherent changes.

  Treat them as tools, not truths.

  I adjusted my position, feeling the cold sting of a rock against my leg.

  But Serpent’s Tongue? Now that was different. A dangerous instrument.

  The memory of that guard’s vacant, docile stare nagged at me. It was power, but a wrong kind of power. Unearned, and always with a hidden price.

  D’s latest manic theory clawed into my brain, as ridiculous as it was unnerving: what if the Mystic Swords—the so-called ‘authorities’—knew? What if we weren’t just glitches in the Matrix, but part of some grand sandbox game with players far more competent (and better dressed) moving the real pieces?

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  Shit.

  I was starting to think like D.

  Maybe my brain was rotting, or his relentless enthusiasm was acting like some kind of contagious disease.

  The idea made my skin prickle. I was still waiting for the punchline.

  I shifted my weight again.

  And then, finally—relief.

  I didn’t care if it was a rough rock, a tangled thicket, or the edge of a cliff. I veered aside and did what I had to do, the warm rush of relief flooding down my legs. It was oddly satisfying—the sound of urine hitting the mossy stone, merging with the thunderous roar of the waterfall.

  I wiped my hands on my pants and slipped back into my train of thought.

  As for my “team,” calling them useful felt like stretching the truth.

  More like a collection of mismatched IKEA furniture: shaky, eccentric, but occasionally functional if you sat just right.

  They were more like dinner guests I couldn’t get rid of.

  D: a chaotic knight, perpetually charging into traps with a smile and a quote from a franchise no one else remembered. His optimism was weaponized nonsense, the kind that could convince a sinking ship it was learning to swim.

  Annoying? Constantly.

  Useful? Unfortunately, yes. He made people believe things might work out, and sometimes that was scarier than the monsters.

  Z: a rook carved out of bitterness and existential dread. Unmovable, unshakable, and somehow still funny in the way gallows humor makes a man hang with dignity. His entire existence was a protest against hope, but his cynicism had structure. You could lean on it. If you didn’t mind the emotional frostbite.

  Lyra and Lorens: pawns who thought they were off the board. Lyra could gut you in a blink, but she'd call it a "practical solution." Lorens was like a sentient clipboard. Together, they made up the “normal” quotient of our group—like decorative stones in a war zone. Not useless, but not great cover either.

  Cataloging them like this felt cold. Detached.

  Which was perfect.

  Emotion is how people get killed. Or worse—attached.

  And let’s be honest—the temptation to abandon them wasn’t just recurring.

  It was starting to look like a damn good idea.

  My chances of survival, solo, might theoretically increase. Less noise, less distraction. But then, the forest. The wolf. Z’s unexpected intervention. D’s desperate, distracting shouts. Even my own ‘Serpent’s Tongue’ had manifested in a moment of shared crisis.

  Were these abilities tied to our… unwilling camaraderie?

  Or was I just rationalizing a weakness—a reluctance to sever ties I hadn’t even consciously formed?

  What about the shared experience with the others? Were we in some kind of “party”? And if so, how did we dissolve it? How the hell were we managing this? Another system mechanic we didn’t know how to access?

  I looked at the tattoo on my right hand again. Party. Show party members.

  I muttered the words to myself like a mantra. “Show party members. Party menu. Display group.”

  Nothing happened.

  I tried a few more variations.

  “Group. Team. Show me the party. Come on, you stupid—”

  It felt absurd. I probably looked like an idiot, talking to my hand like it would respond. The System had no sympathy for my dignity.

  Letting out a sigh, I gave up. I was about to punch the tattoo in frustration, but something in me hesitated. Instead, I focused inward, trying to reach for something… anything from my past.

  A face. A name. A feeling.

  It was like grabbing at smoke. Every time my fingers closed around a potential memory, it slipped away, dissolving into nothingness.

  A dull throb behind my eyes was the only answer.

  No. For now, these were my pieces. And, reluctantly, I was the player.

  It wasn’t fair, but I had to start thinking about this new reality as a zero-sum game—every gain for one player meant an equal loss for another. The stakes had shifted. The rules were broken. I had no idea who had made them, but there was no point in pretending I could win by playing nice.

  No more waiting.

  No more hesitation.

  Enough reacting. Enough being herded from crisis to crisis.

  It was time to act.

  Short-term: survive.

  Medium-term: understand the mechanics of this game.

  Long-term…

  I traced a finger over the map.

  Home.

  The word echoed—hollow, distant.

  My mind sifted through the information Lorens and Lyra had grudgingly provided over the past few days. That particular conversation had taken place on the second day, after we’d finally had a chance to wash off the grime in the waterfall behind the cave.

  Lorens had even produced surprisingly clean—if ill-fitting—spare clothes from their hidden caches.

  So, the story goes like this.

  Lorens and Lyra carried the weight of a shattered company—mercenaries, once part of the Crimson Claw of Branix.

  A retrieval mission gone sideways. A routine job twisted into an ambush. Their unit had been torn apart, outmatched by something faster, stronger.

  They were the only survivors.

  I ran a hand through my hair, scanning the crude map Lyra had drawn. The names meant little to me—but the implications were clear enough.

  Their skills. Their caution. It all made sense now.

  And then, the war.

  Elbaria versus Solmara. Not just a border skirmish—a calculated power struggle.

  Solmara held the Sunken Grove as sacred ground, bound by ancient treaties with older powers. Elbaria scoffed at such superstitions. They saw resources. Strategic footholds. Weakness.

  I exhaled, tapping a finger against Oakhaven’s mark on the map.

  Fortresses were being fortified. Mystic Swords deployed—not just as commanders, but as enforcers.

  And if they suspected anything… well, their methods were legendarily thorough.

  The spark? Rumors of a major discovery in the contested borderlands.

  Some whispered of ancient ruins, lost magic. Others, rich mineral veins.

  Whatever the truth, it had tipped tensions into full-blown war.

  Which meant Oakhaven—the town we barely escaped from—was more than just a prison.

  It was a key border stronghold.

  Our escape had bought us time. Nothing more.

  I leaned back, eyes fixed on the horizon. The night pressed in—cold, absolute.

  Still, not everything had been a waste.

  Cliché narrative tools or not, we had learned something valuable—a city.

  Veridia.

  A sprawling metropolis nestled in Solmara’s heartland. A hub of commerce, of guilds, of… anonymity. A place where one could earn coin, gain experience, and perhaps uncover crucial information about this System.

  A dangerous gamble.

  But it was a direction.

  A purpose.

  My decision solidified. Veridia. But not as frightened refugees. We needed to be stronger, to engage this System on our own terms.

  A faint sound pricked my ears, cutting through the night’s usual chorus. A distressed mewling, almost like a cat. But were there ordinary cats in this gods-forsaken world?

  I drew the short sword I’d appropriated from Lorens’ collection. Heavy, unfamiliar, but better than a stick. The sound came again, from a rocky outcrop further up the slope.

  Caution warred with curiosity. I moved towards the sound, boots crunching softly on loose scree. The path was a narrow goat trail. The mewling grew louder. As I rounded a jagged spur of rock, I saw it.

  Small, feline in shape, fur the color of midnight. Two long, whip-like tails, twitching erratically. Between its pointed ears, a third eye, squeezed shut in pain. One foreleg bent at an unnatural angle. Towering over it, pecking viciously, was a bird, larger than an eagle, oily black feathers, a cruel, hooked beak, eyes glowing with malevolent crimson light. It shrieked, lunging.

  Without conscious thought, I moved. A surge of… something… propelled me. I yelled, a wordless roar, and charged, swinging the unfamiliar sword. The blade met feathers and flesh with a jarring thud. The monstrous bird shrieked, startled, its crimson eyes fixing on me with murderous intent. It launched itself, talons extended.

  What followed was a clumsy, desperate ballet—no skill, only adrenaline, only the unfamiliar weight of the short sword.

  I parried, dodged by sheer luck rather than design, swung with the ferocity of a cornered animal.

  The bird was fast—a terrifying blur of black feathers, its beak and talons razors.

  It raked my arm, drawing blood. Sharp. Immediate.

  I stumbled back, heart hammering. This wasn’t working.

  Too quick. Too vicious.

  Then—a memory surfaced.

  The guard. His vacant smile. The power.

  "Serpent’s Tongue."

  Could it work on this?

  It was worth the attempt; stabbing wasn’t proving effective.

  I forced past the pain, channeled the same desperate intent I’d felt back in that prison cell, and yelled—hoarse, raw.

  "Stop!"

  The bird hesitated.

  For less than a heartbeat.

  Crimson eyes fixed on me.

  Then, an ear-splitting shriek—louder, more enraged than before.

  It lunged.

  Talons aimed at my face.

  Failure.

  Utter, absolute failure. Shit.

  Why?

  My mind raced even as I barely deflected the attack.

  Was the skill purely passive, only triggering under specific, unknown conditions? Did I need to activate it beyond mere command?

  That feeling back in the jail—it hadn’t been me forcing my will, but something responding to my need.

  Or maybe it was simpler.

  The skill’s description had mentioned targets of lesser or equal willpower.

  Maybe this unnatural avian predator had a will far exceeding mine.

  Maybe its primal fury made it immune.

  Or maybe…

  It simply didn’t work on animals at all.

  More unknowns. More variables in this damnable equation.

  Useless.

  Back to basics.

  I abandoned the failed mental tactic and lunged again, putting my weight behind a wild, horizontal slash.

  The sword tip grazed its wing.

  It shrieked—pain and fury interwoven.

  Then, with a final, frustrated screech, it launched into the night sky, disappearing over the treetops.

  No XP.

  Figures.

  The two-tailed creature lay whimpering. Its third eye opened, a slit of luminous gold, regarding me. Slowly, I knelt. "Easy now," I murmured. I reached out. It flinched, then leaned into my touch, a soft, rumbling purr vibrating through my fingers. It licked my hand.

  As my fingers gently probed the mangled leg, translucent text shimmered.

  [Wild Minfu (Injured) senses your intent. A bond is possible.]

  [Establish Familiar Contract with Minfu? Y/N]

  I stared. A familiar. A pet? An echo of a memory… companionship. A slow smile touched my lips. Perhaps this world wasn’t entirely without its… unexpected opportunities.

  "Alright, little kitty," I whispered. "Let's see what we can do about that leg."