Chapter 1 - Rebirth and First Trial
The air tasted of iron and sweat, thick and humid in the training hall. Sunlight, filtered through high, barred windows, painted stripes across the worn wooden floor. He moved with a controlled ferocity, each strike a whip crack, each block a stone wall. His body, lean and powerful, flowed through the complex sequence of movements – a blur of fists, elbows, knees, and feet. Muscle memory, honed by relentless discipline, guided him. His focus was absolute, the world narrowing to the rhythm of his breath and the precise execution of technique. The scent of the training mats, a mix of canvas and disinfectant, was the perfume of his dedication, a smell that spoke of countless hours spent pushing limits. The low thud of impacts, the sharp exhales of effort, the rhythmic shuffle of feet – these were the sounds of his youth, a symphony of self-improvement.
He was nineteen, and his body was a finely tuned instrument, a testament to years of relentless dedication that bordered on obsession. Peak physical condition wasn't just a description; it was a feeling that permeated his very being – a boundless well of energy, speed, and strength that responded instantly to his will. He could push harder, endure longer, learn faster than most. It wasn't just natural talent, though he possessed that in abundance; it was years spent rising before dawn, pushing through exhaustion that left him trembling, accepting failure as a stepping stone rather than a roadblock, and craving mastery with an insatiable hunger. He didn't just train; he lived the disciplines, immersing himself in their philosophies and physical demands. Taekwondo's explosive kicks and precise strikes, Muay Thai's brutal clinch and powerful elbows and knees that could shatter bone, Boxing's intricate footwork and devastating punches that could end a fight in an instant, Silat's fluid, deceptive movements and joint locks that could incapacitate an opponent with minimal force, Escrima and Arnis's weapon-based principles that translated seamlessly to empty hands, turning his limbs into bladed instruments, Aikido's redirection of force, using an opponent's momentum against them, Karate's linear power and devastating strikes, Krav Maga's brutal efficiency for real-world threats, designed to end a confrontation as quickly and decisively as possible, and even the theoretical applications related to 'Gun Fu' concepts, exploring how firearms could be integrated into close-quarters combat – he absorbed them all, studying under different masters, cross-training relentlessly, weaving them into a personal, devastating tapestry of overwhelming capability. His body was a living library of combat, each movement a sentence, each technique a chapter he had written with sweat, sacrifice, and an unwavering will. He felt the potential humming beneath his skin, the promise of becoming something truly exceptional.
His mind was as sharp as his body, perhaps even sharper, a product of necessity as much as nature. Growing up in a house often fractured by his father's drinking and his mother's cold indifference had forced a premature maturity upon him, a need to understand the unpredictable dynamics of human behavior, to navigate emotional minefields that could erupt without warning, and to build his own stability in an unstable environment. He learned to read people, to see past facades, to understand the unspoken motivations driving their actions. This translated into an almost uncanny ability to assess situations, predict intentions, and maintain composure under pressure, whether it was facing a hostile opponent on the mat or navigating complex social dynamics. He saw angles others missed, understood motivations buried beneath surface pleasantries, and could disarm tense situations with a quiet word or a subtle shift in demeanor. It made him not just a formidable athlete, but a strategic thinker, whether on the sparring mat, negotiating social situations, or simply observing the world around him. He felt invincible, poised on the edge of a future that stretched out, bright with promise, limited only by how far he was willing to push himself, a future where his physical and mental prowess would undoubtedly lead him to success and recognition.
Then, the screech of tires, impossibly loud, tearing through the steady sound of rain drumming against the car roof. The sickening crunch of metal, a sound of tearing, twisting destruction that would forever be etched into his memory, a visceral sound of his world breaking apart. The shattering of glass, like a thousand tiny explosions, shards flying through the air. Pain, searing and absolute, erupted through his left side, a fire that consumed everything, ripping through muscle, bone, and nerve, stealing his breath, stealing his future in a single, brutal instant. The world tilted violently, spun uncontrollably, and went dark.
Seventeen years. Seventeen years had passed since that moment on a rain-slicked road. Seventeen years lived in the aftermath of that single, catastrophic event that had stolen his potential and reshaped his existence. Raven Kyle Lacson, aged 36, stared at the man in the mirror, a stranger in a familiar face, a face etched with lines of quiet weariness and the ghost of a smile that rarely reached his eyes. The sharp lines of youth had softened, replaced by a quiet weariness that settled deep in his eyes, a reflection of the years spent in confinement. His physique, once honed steel, had softened, muscle mass withered by disuse, replaced by a more fragile form. Standing required effort, each step on crutches a conscious act of balance and endurance, a clumsy, dependent gait that was a constant, frustrating reminder of the life stolen from him. His left side remained stubbornly unresponsive, a heavy, useless burden, a dead weight he had to compensate for with every movement, a constant physical anchor to the accident.
Life had become smaller, the vibrant, expansive world of his youth shrinking to the confines of his apartment, a space optimized for his limited mobility. His world was defined by familiar routes to necessary appointments, the digital landscapes of games that offered escape but no true fulfillment, just a distraction from the quiet ache of reality. The effortless social connection of his youth had atrophied, replaced by a quiet reserve, an acquired introversion born of navigating a world not built for his body, a world that often saw his disability before it saw him, a world where simple tasks became monumental challenges. Motivation had become a fleeting visitor, chased away by the inertia of routine, the quiet despair of stagnation, and the bitter taste of lost potential, a constant, low-level hum of regret. He was a man living in the shadow of the person he could have been, haunted by the ghost of his nineteen-year-old self.
The shrill, insistent ring of the landline cut through the silence of his apartment, a jarring intrusion into the quiet rhythm of his day. He reached for it, the movement practiced but slow with his right hand, his left arm resting limply at his side, a constant, heavy reminder of his limitations.
"Hello?" His voice was flat, devoid of the easy warmth he'd once commanded, a voice that rarely needed to express anything beyond polite neutrality or weary acceptance.
"Good morning, Mr. Lacson. This is Maria from the Disabled Welfare Office." Her voice was bright, professional, the practiced cheerfulness of someone dealing with routine paperwork and difficult situations.
"Yes, Maria. What is it?" Raven sighed inwardly, bracing himself for another bureaucratic hurdle. More paperwork. More hoops to jump through.
"Just calling to follow up on your mobility aid subsidy application. It's been approved! Everything seems to be in order, which is wonderful news. It's been a long process, I know. We just need you to come in and sign the final release form. It requires your physical signature, unfortunately. Just a formality, but necessary."
Raven felt a familiar wave of annoyance, a ripple of frustration that was a constant undercurrent in his life. Paperwork. Always more paperwork. And a physical visit. To a mall. "Today? Is there... is there no way to do this electronically? Or perhaps a home visit? My mobility... it's not always easy to get around on short notice, as you know." He already knew the answer, the polite but firm refusal that would follow. Bureaucracy rarely bent for convenience, especially for someone like him. His circumstances were a problem for him to manage, not for the system to accommodate.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Lacson, I understand completely," Maria's voice was sympathetic, but firm, the practiced tone of someone who had delivered this message many times before. "But for this particular release, it's a strict requirement to sign in person at the office. It's a new regulation for this type of subsidy. If you could possibly come by before closing today, say, around 4 PM? That would be ideal to ensure you receive the subsidy promptly and avoid any further delays."
He sighed again, a quiet exhalation of frustration and weary resignation. Of course. The office was located in a mall. Not the mall, thankfully, the one forever etched into his memory by trauma, the one that haunted his infrequent nightmares, the one where his life had effectively ended the first time, but malls in general held a low-level anxiety for him now. Crowds, uneven floors, unexpected obstacles, the sheer scale of them designed for able-bodied ease – they were all challenges, physical and emotional. He could use his wheelchair, yes, the one that was more efficient for longer distances, less physically taxing, providing a stable platform, but the thought felt... defeating. He still clung to the limited mobility his crutches afforded him, a small act of retaining some semblance of the independence he craved, a refusal to be entirely confined. The wheelchair felt too much like surrender, too visible a symbol of his constraints, a constant advertisement of his disability to the world. The crutches were more work, demanding more energy, leaving him sore and exhausted, but they allowed him to stand, to feel the ground under his one working foot, to navigate tight spaces more easily, to feel slightly less... broken, slightly more like the man he once was.
"Crutches it is," he muttered to the empty room, the decision made, the familiar weight of the effort settling upon him. The prospect of the trip was draining before it even began, a miniature expedition requiring planning and energy he didn't always have.
Getting ready was a process, a slow, deliberate ritual honed over seventeen years of necessity. Shaving, showering carefully, balancing on one side, dressing in clothes that were easy to manage with limited mobility. The familiar routine of securing the prosthetic brace on his left leg, the cumbersome act of positioning his unresponsive arm in a sling or brace. Finally, the moment of grasping the crutches leaning against the wall, the worn grips familiar in his hands, swinging his body forward, finding the rhythm of his altered gait. Each movement a conscious effort, a small victory against his limitations, but also a constant, painful reminder of what was lost, a physical echo of the accident.
The commute was a blur of public transport – the bus, the train – navigating ramps and crowded spaces, enduring the polite but often pitying or impatient stares of strangers. He kept his gaze focused forward, his expression neutral, a practiced mask of stoicism, projecting an air of quiet determination he didn't always feel. He just wanted to get this done. Sign the form. Get the subsidy. Go home. Retreat back to the controlled environment of his apartment.
Entering the mall was like stepping into a different ecosystem, a jarring transition from the quiet of his apartment and the controlled chaos of public transport. The artificial brightness of the fluorescent lights, the controlled temperature, the cacophony of piped-in music, chatter, commercial jingles, and the endless shuffle of feet. The sheer density of people, a flowing river of humanity he had to navigate against the current, a constant obstacle course. He moved slowly, sticking to the less crowded edges, his crutches marking a steady, deliberate rhythm against the polished floor, making his way towards the escalator bank that would take him down to the basement level. He could manage the escalator with his crutches, carefully positioning himself, a small, hard-won piece of independence he clung to, unlike the wheelchair which would require finding an elevator – often crowded, sometimes out of order, always a potential point of delay and dependence on others.
Basement Level 2. The air grew cooler, the light dimmer, the sounds more muted, replaced by the distant hum of machinery and the occasional rattle of service carts. This was the functional heart of the mall, less polished than the retail floors above, more concrete, more utilitarian, less frequented by the casual shopper. The air here smelled faintly of exhaust fumes from the loading bays and disinfectant from the service areas, a utilitarian scent. He swung his way down the long corridor, the thump-scrape, thump-scrape of his crutches echoing slightly in the quieter space. The Disabled Welfare Office was tucked away near the service entrance, a small, unassuming door, easy to miss amidst the blank walls and service entrances. He just needed to get the form. Sign it. And get out. A simple task, a routine inconvenience, the last hurdle before getting the much-needed subsidy.
He reached the door of the office, pushed it open, and stepped inside. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A few people sat in plastic chairs, waiting patiently, their faces reflecting a similar weary patience. The air was still, quiet, a brief respite from the mall's energy, a small pocket of calm.
Then, the rumble began.
Low at first, a deep vibration that seemed to resonate in his bones, a familiar, terrifying sensation that instantly triggered a primal alarm deep within him. It wasn't a truck outside, or building maintenance. It was deeper, a growl that seemed to come from the very foundations of the earth, from the planet itself. The floor beneath his crutches began to vibrate, a gentle shimmy that quickly escalated into a violent shaking, the ground beneath him becoming unpredictable and unstable, threatening to throw him off balance.
"Earthquake!" someone screamed, the sound raw with terror, a sound Raven knew intimately, a sound that had marked the end of his first life.
The hum of the lights turned into a frantic rattle. The plastic chairs skittered across the floor with a scraping noise. A framed picture fell from the wall with a crash of breaking glass. Dust rained down from the ceiling tiles, a fine, grey powder, coating everything. Raven gripped his crutches desperately, his knuckles white, struggling with every ounce of his strength to maintain balance on the suddenly unstable ground. His paralyzed left side felt like dead weight, a critical handicap in this chaos, robbing him of half his stability, making him terrifyingly vulnerable.
Panic erupted. It wasn't a slow build; it was instantaneous, primal, a wave of pure, unreasoning fear that swept through the small office, overriding all sense of order or consideration. People screamed, surged to their feet, shoving past each other towards the exits, a desperate, shoving mass of humanity focused only on escape. The office door, which he had just entered, became a chokepoint of terrified humanity, a bottleneck of desperation and self-preservation.
"Move! Get out of the way!" A woman's voice shrieked, her face contorted with fear as she pushed past someone else, her eyes wide and unseeing.
Raven was caught in the tide, an immovable object in the path of an irresistible force. His crutches offered no stability against the panicked shove of desperate bodies. He felt a hard impact against his chest, a jarring blow that stole his breath, then another against his shoulder. His grip failed, his fingers losing their purchase on the worn grips. The crutches clattered away, skittering across the shaking floor, propelled by the panicked feet, just out of reach, his lifeline gone.
He fell. Not a controlled fall, not a stumble, but a collapse, hitting the ground hard on his working right side, pain shooting up his arm from the impact. His paralyzed left side smacked uselessly against the concrete floor, a dead weight he couldn't control. He tried to push himself up, to find his feet, to crawl, but the ground bucked and rolled like a ship in a storm, making any attempt at regaining balance or mobility impossible.
Then the stampede began.
Fear-driven people surged over him, a wave of legs and flailing arms, blind in their desperation to escape, seeing him as nothing more than an obstacle. He curled instinctively, trying to protect his head with his working arm, gritting his teeth against the impacts, the dull thud of bodies hitting him. A heavy boot landed squarely on his back, driving the air from his lungs, a brutal impact. A sharp knee dug into his side. He heard the sickening snap of wood – a sound that pierced through the chaos, unmistakable – his crutches, splintered beneath the weight of fleeing bodies. Gone. His last fragile link to independent mobility, shattered like his mobility aids, leaving him utterly helpless.
Helplessness washed over him, cold and absolute, a familiar, bitter taste. He was trapped, not by rubble yet, but by the sheer, uncaring force of human panic, his own body a useless burden in the chaos, unable to move, unable to defend himself, exposed and vulnerable. The shaking intensified, the building groaning around them, a symphony of structural failure. A loud, terrifying groan echoed from the structure above, the sound of stressed concrete and twisting metal, the sound of impending collapse. Cracks appeared in the concrete ceiling, widening rapidly, dust and small debris raining down onto the floor, onto him, covering him in a grey shroud.
Anger, hot and fierce, flared within him, a desperate, impotent rage that burned brighter than the fear. Anger at the unfairness of it all, at the cruel irony of dying in an earthquake in a mall after surviving a car crash that had crippled him. Anger at the accident that had left him like this, vulnerable and trapped. Anger at the world that seemed determined to kick him when he was down, to pile tragedy upon tragedy. Anger at the selfish, terrified faces trampling over him, blind to his plight, caring only for themselves. After everything... after surviving the crash, living like this for seventeen years, enduring the limitations, the pain, the despair... this is how it ends? Lying here, useless, trampled, waiting for the roof to fall? He clenched his working fist, the muscles straining, wishing with every fiber of his being for the strength, the speed, the power he'd had at nineteen, the ability to fight, to move, to survive this, to lash out, to escape.
The anger subsided, the intense heat draining away, replaced by a crushing wave of regret that was even more painful. Regret for the wasted years, the ones spent in quiet despair and stagnation, letting his potential wither. Regret for the person he'd allowed himself to become – introverted, unmotivated, defeated by his circumstances, defined by his disability rather than his capabilities. He saw flashes of his peak self, vibrant and alive, full of potential, standing over the broken, defeated man he was now, trapped on the floor, waiting to die. He regretted the things he hadn't done, the risks he hadn't taken, the life he hadn't fully lived, crippled not just by his body, but by his own surrender to despair. He should have found a way. He should have pushed harder in the years after the accident. He should have... done more.
It doesn't matter now. The thought was quiet, final, a surrender to the inevitable.
A strange calm began to settle over him as the sounds of the earthquake and the distant screams grew distant, muffled by the rising dust and the roar of the collapsing structure above. The shaking seemed less violent now, or perhaps his senses were simply failing, his body shutting down, preparing for the end. Dust filled the air, thick and chokingly sweet, making it hard to breathe, burning his lungs. His chest felt heavy, an immense pressure building, the weight of the collapsing building settling upon him. The pain in his side and back dulled, becoming a distant throb, a fading echo, a sign that the end was near. He saw no more panicked faces, only swirling dust and the ominous, cracking concrete above, growing closer, faster, the final curtain descending. Acceptance, quiet and profound, followed the regret. There was nothing more he could do. No fight left to give. No escape. He closed his eyes, the weight on his chest growing heavier, the darkness deepening, the sounds of the collapsing world fading into silence.
Darkness enveloped him. Not the frantic, terrifying dark of being buried alive, the physical sensation of confinement, but a deep, infinite, silent void. It wasn't a place; it was the absence of everything. Consciousness, sensation, self – all fading, dissolving, ceasing to be. He was gone. The life of Raven Kyle Lacson, age 36, ended there, in the dust and rubble of a mall basement.
He was certain of it. Utterly, completely gone.
[Initialization Sequence Complete.] [User Binding Successful.] [User Identity: Raven Kyle Lacson.] [Designation/Status: Reinitialized Unit, Earth-P Cycle 9 Subject.] [Development Stage: 1.]
The sterile, bracketed text appeared in the blackness, stark and inexplicable, floating in the void, an alien presence in the nothingness. And then, sensation returned, not pain or pressure, not the crushing weight of the mall's debris, but a vibrant, impossible feeling of wholeness, of strength, of a body fully alive. The scent of damp earth and growing things, rich and earthy, filled his lungs, a stark contrast to the dust and disinfectant of the mall, a smell of life and growth. Sunlight, warm and golden, warmed his eyelids. He pushed himself up, scrambling out of soft soil and tangled roots, onto ground that felt achingly familiar in its precise location – the spot where his life had just ended – yet completely, utterly alien in its ancient, untamed reality.
[Accessing User Status Panel.]
A new, larger window bloomed in his perception, cold and functional, overlaying the vibrant green of the jungle with sterile data, a digital intrusion into a natural world.
[User: Raven Kyle Lacson] [Designation/Status: Reinitialized Unit, Earth-P Cycle 9 Subject] [Development Stage: 1]
[Attributes:] [STR (Strength): 8.5] - Output parameter for physical force and impact potential. [VIT (Vitality): 8.9] - Output parameter for physical constitution, resilience, recovery rate, and environmental tolerance. [MND (Mind): 9.2] - Output parameter for cognitive function, processing efficiency, willpower, and mental resistance. [SOL (Soul): 6.1] - Output parameter for psychic/spiritual potential, ethereal capacity, and non-physical resilience.
[Data Point: Average biological unit parameters on Earth-P Cycle 9 register approximately 5...]
Raven stared at the cold, functional text, his mind reeling, struggling to reconcile the impossible. A system? Like in those novels? What is this? Am I dead? Is this some kind of afterlife? A simulation? He tried to communicate, to question the sterile prompt, to demand answers, but the bracketed text remained static, unresponsive to dialogue, a wall of data. Right. Unfeeling AI. Just prompts and data. No explanations. No conversation. Just... function.
His mind, now operating at its peak clarity, unburdened by the fog of chronic pain and sedentary stagnation, processed the impossible with startling speed, drawing on every piece of knowledge and experience he possessed. Died in a mall earthquake. Woke up in his prime body. In the middle of what looked like a thousand-year-old jungle. With a System. Isekai. Transmigration. Getting a 'Golden Finger'. The tropes from the web novels he'd read for escape flooded his mind, providing a strange, unexpected framework for this unbelievable reality. A wry, almost hysterical thought surfaced, a brief moment of dark humor in the face of the utterly absurd. So, this is it? The cheat ability? The second chance? No stinking grandpa in a ring, though. No sassy AI waifu. Just bland data and a silent interface. Figures.
He ran a hand over his left arm, feeling the smooth skin, the hard muscle beneath, the effortless responsiveness. He flexed his fingers, watching them curl and straighten, a simple action that felt profoundly miraculous after seventeen years of stubborn stillness. It was real. This body was real. He took a tentative step, then another, testing the feel of the uneven ground beneath his bare feet. The soil was soft in places, firm in others, littered with twigs and leaves. He could walk without pain, without effort, without the clumsy dependence on crutches. He could run, jump, fight. The sheer, simple miracle of that was almost overwhelming, a profound physical freedom he hadn't experienced in seventeen years. The memory of crutches and the wheelchair felt distant, like a bad dream, a life lived by someone else, a life he had finally escaped.
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But where was he? The trees, the sounds, the humidity... it felt undeniably tropical. The Philippines, perhaps? It was the only place that made sense, given where he died. But a thousand years ago? What did the Philippines even look like in the 10th Century? His knowledge was hazy, fragmented, based on limited historical accounts. Doubt began to creep in, cold and unsettling, whispering insidious possibilities. Is this real? Or... did the fall, the lack of oxygen... did it just break my brain? Am I lying in the rubble right now, hallucinating all of this? Is this some elaborate, dying dream brought on by oxygen deprivation and too many web novels? Is this just my mind's last desperate attempt to escape the horror of being buried alive? The thought was terrifying, a potential trapdoor into madness. The vividness of his body, the feel of the earth, the sharp clarity of his mind – it all felt undeniably real. But then, so did the crushing weight in the mall. How could he be sure? How could he distinguish this impossible reality from a dying hallucination?
Just as the terrifying thought took root, threatening to send him spiraling into disbelief and madness, a sound cut through the background noise of the jungle, sharp and clear, slicing through his internal turmoil. A piercing, majestic cry from high above, unlike any bird call he’d ever heard in the city, a sound of pure, untamed wilderness, a sound of life that predated concrete and steel.
Kee-yer! Kee-yer!
Raven’s eyes snapped open, drawn upwards by the powerful sound. Through a gap in the dense canopy, framed by ancient leaves and vines, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a large, powerful bird soaring against the impossibly blue sky. Its wingspan was immense, broad and powerful, its silhouette distinctive even in the brief view.
A Philippine Eagle.
He knew that sound. He knew that bird. It was the Pithecophaga jefferyi, the national bird of the Philippines, majestic and critically endangered in his time. It wasn't a sound he'd expect to hear in a hallucination brought on by dying in a mall. It was a sound of the deep wilderness, a sound that spoke of untouched forests and a thriving ecosystem, a sound that belonged to this land, in this time. It felt... real. Grounding. It was a piece of undeniable reality from his home country, placed in this ancient setting. He was in the Philippines. A very, very old version of the Philippines. The hallucination theory began to crumble under the weight of this specific, external detail. This was real. This impossible, terrifying, exhilarating reality was real.
The brief moment of awe and confirmation was shattered by a rustle in the undergrowth nearby, closer this time, heavier than a bird or a small mammal. Raven’s head whipped around, his body instinctively tensing, snapping from philosophical contemplation to primal alertness. His combat training, dormant for seventeen years but now residing in a body capable of executing it, surged to the surface, an instinctual response bypassing conscious thought, muscle memory kicking in. His stance shifted subtly, his weight distributing evenly, his muscles coiling, ready. His eyes scanned the dense foliage at the edge of the clearing, searching for the source of the sound, his senses on high alert.
A large, dark shape emerged from the bushes, pushing aside thick leaves and snapping small twigs. It was low to the ground, scaled, with a long neck and a head that weaved back and forth, a black, forked tongue flickering out, tasting the air, gathering information about its surroundings. It moved with a sinuous grace, its powerful limbs propelling it forward, its dark, intelligent eyes fixed on him, a predator’s stare.
A lizard. A very, very large lizard. Longer than he was tall, perhaps two meters from snout to tail tip, with powerful claws on its feet and a thick, muscular tail that dragged slightly on the ground. Its scales were a mottled pattern of greens, browns, and blacks, providing excellent camouflage in the dappled light, making it blend seamlessly with the forest floor.
A Water Monitor Lizard. Varanus salvator. He recognized it instantly from nature documentaries and occasional sightings near rivers or coastal areas back home, though never one this size in the wild. They were common in the Philippines, adaptable and widespread, but seeing one this large, emerge from the wilderness like this, its gaze locked onto him... it wasn't a casual encounter. Its posture, the slow, deliberate movements, the flicking tongue – it looked like a predator assessing prey. It looked hungry. And he was the only potential meal in sight.
He took a slow, deliberate step back, assessing the threat, his mind racing through potential strategies. He was unarmed. Bare hands. Against claws that could flay flesh from bone, teeth that could tear, a tail that could break limbs. He might be strong, his attributes high, pushing towards the peak of human capability. Against a normal man, even several normal men, he knew he could hold his own, perhaps even dominate, relying on his rediscovered strength, speed, and ingrained combat knowledge. But this wasn't a normal man. This was a reptile built over millennia for survival in a harsh environment, equipped with natural weapons far superior to bare human hands and feet.
Claws like sharpened bone daggers, capable of disemboweling. A bite that could inflict horrific wounds, likely carrying a cocktail of dangerous bacteria in its saliva, a death sentence in this era without antibiotics. A tail that could stun or cripple with a single blow. The stark reality of his disadvantage hit him with chilling clarity, a cold knot forming in his stomach. All his training, all his mastery of human-versus-human combat, felt suddenly inadequate in the face of this ancient, scaled predator. He could dodge, he could evade, he could use his body's strength to strike, but how could he neutralize it effectively, quickly, without risking grievous injury that could be fatal in this world without modern medicine? His hands, his feet – they were just meat against scales and claws.
The monitor lizard hissed again, a low, rasping sound that sent a shiver down his spine, and began to move faster, closing the distance with surprising speed. It wasn't a full charge yet, but a swift, ground-eating scuttle, its body low to the earth, its head weaving back and forth. Raven reacted on pure instinct, a sidestep that was more a controlled slide than a simple step, his body already anticipating the lizard's movement, narrowly avoiding the snapping jaws that lunged towards where he had been a moment before. He felt the rush of air as the lizard’s head whipped past, heard the click of its teeth, a sound of bone on bone.
He needed a weapon. Anything. Something to create distance, something to strike with, something to level the playing field, even slightly. His bare hands felt useless, vulnerable.
His eyes darted around the clearing, searching desperately. Rocks? Too small, too round, too scattered on the leaf-covered ground. The ground was covered in leaves and roots, not loose stones. His gaze landed on the dense undergrowth at the edge of the clearing, the thick, dark wood of the trees and bushes. Branches. Yes. Branches. If he could find something sturdy, something he could wield...
He needed something sturdy, something he could use to keep the lizard at bay, something he could strike with. His mind flashed back to his Arnis training, the feel of the sticks in his hands, the angles of attack, the principles of striking vital points – eyes, snout, joints, the base of the tail. Arnis was designed for close-quarters combat, using sticks or blades as extensions of the body, focusing on speed, angles, and targeting vulnerable points. It was perhaps the most relevant of his martial arts against an opponent with natural weapons, but he needed the tools.
He backed away further, maintaining distance from the agitated lizard, his eyes scanning the surrounding vegetation with frantic urgency. He spotted a thick bush with several sturdy, dark wood branches growing from its base. Kamagong. He recognized the wood – dense, hard, often used for traditional Arnis sticks or weapon handles in the modern era due to its durability. If he could break off a couple of those... it was a long shot, but his best chance.
He feinted right, a quick shift in weight and posture, drawing the lizard's attention and making it hesitate for a fraction of a second. Then, he darted towards the bush, moving faster than he had in seventeen years, the sheer joy and shock of his body's capability a fleeting thought even in the face of danger. He grabbed two thick branches, roughly the length of his forearms, and put his full weight and strength into snapping them off the main bush. The wood was tough, requiring a sharp, powerful twist and pull, straining his muscles. He felt the satisfying crack as they broke free, the raw wood rough against his palms, splinters digging into his skin. He quickly snapped off smaller twigs and leaves, leaving him with two lengths of dark wood, thick as his wrist, with jagged, splintered ends where they had broken from the bush.
They weren't perfectly balanced Arnis sticks. They were raw, heavy, a bit unwieldy, and the broken ends were rough and uneven. But one of them had a particularly sharp, pointed splinter protruding from the break, almost like a natural point, a crude spear tip. It wasn't ideal, far from the polished, balanced sticks he was used to training with, but it was something. It was a tool. It was a chance. A desperate chance.
He turned back to face the monitor lizard, gripping a branch in each hand, settling into a familiar Arnis stance, the weight and feel of the makeshift weapons awkward but present. The branches were held out, ready, not just as weapons, but as extensions of his guard, increasing his reach, creating a buffer zone. The lizard had followed him, its body low, tail twitching back and forth, its head cocked, its eyes fixed on him. It seemed momentarily confused by the sudden appearance of the branches in his hands, its reptilian brain perhaps not processing the human using tools, but the predatory glint in its eyes remained, sharp and focused. The sticks were a new variable, but he was still prey.
This was it. His first fight in this new, insane reality. Unarmed human, armed with two makeshift sticks, against a giant, hungry reptile equipped with natural killing tools. The absurdity of the situation was almost comical, if it weren't for the very real, very immediate danger of being ripped apart.
The lizard lunged again, faster this time, a direct attack aimed at his legs, its preferred method for crippling prey before moving in for the kill. Raven used the branches, not to block directly – that would risk them splintering completely under the lizard's force – but to deflect and redirect. He angled the left branch down, a sharp, precise movement, nudging the lizard's snapping head aside as it lunged, using the right branch simultaneously to keep its body at bay, pushing against its shoulder, trying to steer it away. He danced back, his footwork fluid despite the uneven ground, recalling the triangular patterns of Arnis footwork designed to evade and create angles, to stay out of the line of attack while positioning for a counter-strike.
The lizard was relentless, surprisingly agile and persistent. It circled him, looking for an opening, its thick, muscular tail sweeping back and forth behind it, a dangerous weapon in itself, capable of delivering a stunning blow that could break bones. Raven kept moving, the branches a barrier, a probing extension of his reach, trying to control the distance and the angle of the fight, to keep the lizard's formidable natural weapons at bay. He jabbed the pointed end of the right branch towards the lizard's eyes, forcing it to flinch back, buying himself a precious second, a moment to breathe, to think.
He needed to inflict damage, target a vulnerable spot. The eyes, the soft tissue around the snout, perhaps the joints in its legs if he could get close enough, or the base of the skull. But getting close was a massive risk. Those claws could rip him open in an instant, a single bite could be debilitating, potentially fatal in this era. His Arnis training emphasized targeting vulnerable points, but a monitor lizard's anatomy was vastly different from a human's. He had to adapt his knowledge, apply the principles to this alien physiology.
The lizard feinted left again, a quick, deceptive movement, then whipped its tail around in a powerful arc aimed at his legs, a classic monitor lizard tactic to knock prey off balance. Raven leaped back, a sudden, explosive movement he hadn't thought his body capable of just minutes ago, clearing the sweeping tail by inches, feeling the rush of air against his legs. As the tail passed, he brought both branches down in a sharp, angled strike at its base, aiming for the less-protected underside where the tail joined the body, a point he hoped might be vulnerable. He felt the impact, a solid thwack against scales and muscle. The lizard hissed in pain, a sharp, angry sound, whipping its head around towards the point of impact, momentarily distracted and angered.
Okay, that got its attention. It felt that. He pressed the advantage, jabbing the pointed branch towards its snout again, trying to keep it off balance, to control its head. The lizard snapped at the branch, its teeth scraping against the hard wood, trying to bite it in half, to disarm him. He twisted the branch, trying to keep it out of the lizard's jaws, using it to control the distance and annoy the creature, to frustrate its attacks.
He saw an opening. As the lizard focused its attention and jaws on the branch in his right hand, its side was exposed for a fraction of a second, the scales perhaps thinner there, a potential target. He brought the left branch around in a swift, horizontal arc, aiming for the lizard's rib cage, hoping to catch it in a less-scaled area or perhaps bruise something vital underneath. The branch connected with a dull thud, a less satisfying impact than the tail strike, but still a hit. The lizard recoiled, shaking its head, clearly agitated and angered by the persistent human with sticks, its predatory confidence wavering slightly.
This wasn't a clean fight. It was messy, desperate, a chaotic struggle for survival fueled by adrenaline and instinct. He was relying purely on ingrained combat knowledge, adapting techniques designed for human opponents to a completely different anatomy and threat level on the fly, learning as he fought. His body moved with a speed, agility, and endurance he hadn't possessed in seventeen years, a constant, low-level miracle unfolding in the midst of the brutal struggle, a reminder of the power he had reclaimed. But the lizard was powerful, resilient, and its natural weapons were terrifyingly effective. Every near miss, every scrape against scales or feel of its hot breath, sent a jolt of fear through him.
He dodged another lunge, felt the wind of its snapping jaws near his ear, the fetid smell of its breath. He swung the pointed branch, aiming for the lizard's head, trying to land a solid blow with the sharp splinter, hoping to penetrate the thick scales, to inflict a debilitating injury. The lizard ducked, but the branch grazed its snout, drawing a thin line of blood where the splinter scraped across the skin. It wasn't much, but it was damage. Cumulative damage.
The fight continued, a desperate dance of predator and prey, instinct versus training, natural weapons against makeshift tools. Raven was breathing hard now, his chest heaving, his lungs burning, sweat stinging his eyes and running down his face. His muscles screamed, a familiar ache that was welcome compared to the chronic pain he'd lived with for so long. The branches felt heavy, unwieldy, his grip tight, his knuckles white from the strain. The lizard seemed to be tiring slightly, its movements a little less explosive, its lunges less frequent, but it was still dangerous, still determined to bring him down.
He saw his chance. The lizard lunged again, its head extended, its focus narrowed on him, sensing an opportunity. Raven didn't back away this time. He stepped into the attack, a dangerous, high-stakes gamble, a move born of desperation and calculated risk, using the left branch to parry the snapping head aside while simultaneously driving the pointed right branch forward with all his strength, all the power of his peak body, aiming for the soft tissue behind the lizard's eye – a classic vulnerable point in many animals, a point he hoped was accessible.
He felt the point connect, a sickening crunch against bone and tissue, a resistance that suddenly gave way as the splinter penetrated. The lizard shrieked, a high-pitched, unnatural sound of pain and rage, its body convulsing violently, thrashing blindly. It snapped its jaws, its claws tearing at the air and the ground, its tail whipping back and forth erratically, a dying frenzy. Raven scrambled back, dropping the now-bloody branch, his heart hammering against his ribs, adrenaline surging through him, watching the creature's death throes.
The monitor lizard stumbled, shaking its head, disoriented and gravely wounded. It let out a few more gurgling cries, its movements becoming weaker, less coordinated. It stumbled again, then collapsed onto the ground with a heavy thud, its limbs twitching, its eyes glazed and unseeing. Slowly, the movements ceased. It lay still, a large, scaled form on the jungle floor, the silence of the clearing rushing back in to fill the space where the sounds of combat had been.
Raven stood panting, leaning heavily on the remaining branch, watching the dead lizard, the smell of blood strong in his nostrils. His body ached, his hands were raw from gripping the rough wood, his muscles screamed from the unaccustomed exertion, but he was alive. He had won. Unarmed, using two broken branches, relying on training he hadn't actively used in seventeen years, he had defeated a creature that could have easily killed him. The surge of adrenaline began to fade, leaving him trembling slightly, the reality of what had just happened washing over him, the sheer improbability of his survival.
Just as the silence of the jungle began to creep back in, the System interface flickered into existence again, overlaying the scene with its cold, impersonal data, a digital counterpoint to the raw, physical reality of the kill.
[Objective: Threat Neutralization Module [Local Identifier Code 001] Status: Complete.] [Reward Dispensed: Points, Exchange Ticket.] [Points Awarded: 10.] [Item/Equipment Exchange Ticket Awarded: Level 1.]
Raven stared at the notification, a wave of exhaustion washing over him, mixed with a strange sense of accomplishment and disbelief. He had completed the System's first, brutal quest. It wasn't a dream. It was real. The lizard was real. The fight was real. And the System, with its game-like prompts and rewards, was also real.
Okay. Rewards. He focused his thoughts, accessing the System interface again. He navigated to a section labeled "Rewards" or "Inventory" – the interface was purely functional, a simple list of assets, devoid of any visual flair.
[User Inventory:] [Points: 10] [Item/Equipment Exchange Ticket: Level 1 (x1)]
Just the two items. The points, a digital currency, and the ticket, a key to unlock something from the System's catalog. He then focused on the Exchange Ticket, trying to understand its function beyond the basic label, pulling up its parameters.
[Item/Equipment Exchange Ticket: Level 1] [Function: Grants access to the Level 1 tier of the System Commerce Module for a single transaction. Once utilized, this ticket is consumed.] [Note: Items/Equipment acquired via System Commerce Module are bound to User: Raven Kyle Lacson and cannot be transferred or utilized by other biological units unless explicitly stated in item parameters. This binding ensures system integrity and prevents unauthorized distribution of system assets.]
Bound to me only. That made sense from a system perspective. Prevented him from just equipping an army or trading advanced tech with locals. It kept the rewards tied directly to his own progress and use, a personal development tool, not a means to instantly dominate the era. He then mentally commanded the System to open the "System Commerce Module" or "Shop", curious to see what his first 'purchase' would be.
[Accessing System Commerce Module...] [Displaying Level 1 Inventory.] [Note: Level 1 inventory is limited to basic survival and utility items. Higher level inventories require higher level Exchange Tickets or significant Point expenditure. Inventory may update based on User Development Stage and environmental factors.]
A new, sterile list appeared, functional and unadorned, a digital catalog of basic necessities.
[System Commerce Module - Level 1:] [1. Basic Survival Knife (Tier 1) - Cost: 5 Points] [Parameters: Durable, sharp edge, suitable for cutting and basic utility. Constructed from high-grade, corrosion-resistant alloy. Blade length: approx. 15 cm. Weight: approx. 150g.]
[2. Basic First Aid Kit (Tier 1) - Cost: 8 Points] [Parameters: Contains basic medical supplies for treating minor injuries (bandages, antiseptic wipes, pain relievers). Limited quantity. Contents: 5 adhesive bandages, 2 antiseptic wipes, 1 small roll gauze, 1 dose pain reliever.]
[3. Water Purification Tablets (Tier 1) - Cost: 3 Points (per tablet)] [Parameters: Renders 1 liter of non-saline water potable. Effective against most common biological contaminants. Usage: Drop 1 tablet per liter, wait 30 minutes.]
[4. Energy Bar (Tier 1) - Cost: 2 Points (per bar)] [Parameters: Provides basic caloric and nutrient intake (approx. 300 calories). Bland taste. Shelf life: Indefinite (System regulated).]
[5. Item/Equipment Exchange Ticket: Level 1 -> Level 2 Upgrade - Cost: 50 Points] [Parameters: Upgrades one Level 1 ticket to a Level 2 ticket. Requires one Level 1 ticket in inventory for activation. Significant increase in available items/equipment tier.]
[6. Basic Combat Manual (Tier 1) - Cost: 15 Points] [Parameters: Provides fundamental theoretical knowledge in basic unarmed and armed combat principles. (Note: Does not grant Skill Module activation. Knowledge transfer is theoretical only). Content: Digital text interface.]
Raven scanned the list again, reading the slightly more detailed parameters. Basic, indeed. Survival gear. Nothing that screamed 'advanced technology' yet, no plasma weapons or force fields, no instant mastery of skills. But practical. Very practical for someone dropped into a wilderness a thousand years in the past with nothing. He had 10 points. He could afford the knife and two energy bars, or the first aid kit and one energy bar, or a few water tablets. The Level 1 Exchange Ticket was a separate thing, granting him one free pick from this list, regardless of points.
Okay. A free item. What was most critical right now? A weapon for defense and utility? Medical supplies for potential injuries (like the ones he'd just barely avoided)? Food/water, the most basic needs for immediate survival?
He looked back at the dead monitor lizard, then at his raw hands, the splintered branch lying uselessly nearby. He felt the ache in his muscles, the slight trembling in his limbs. He had survived this time, but largely through instinct and luck, aided by his peak body. A knife. A good knife would be invaluable. For defense against future threats, for preparing food (if he could find any), for crafting basic tools or shelter, for countless unforeseen tasks in the wilderness. It was the most versatile item on the list, the most fundamental tool for survival.
He focused on the "Basic Survival Knife (Tier 1)" entry, the text highlighting as he did, confirming his choice.
[Utilize Level 1 Item/Equipment Exchange Ticket on Basic Survival Knife (Tier 1)?] [Confirm / Cancel]
Confirm. He made the mental command without hesitation.
[Transaction Complete.] [Item Acquired: Basic Survival Knife (Tier 1).] [Item/Equipment Exchange Ticket: Level 1 (x0).] [Basic Survival Knife (Tier 1) added to User Inventory.] [Basic Survival Knife (Tier 1) automatically transferred to User physical possession.]
A small, physical object materialized in his right hand, seemingly out of thin air, a solid weight appearing in his palm. It was a fixed-blade knife, simple but sturdy, with a dark, non-reflective blade and a textured, ergonomic grip. It felt solid and balanced, fitting perfectly in his palm, a natural extension of his hand. He tested the edge with his thumb – sharp, effortlessly sharp, capable of cutting with minimal pressure. It felt real, tangible, a piece of the System's power made manifest in the physical world, a concrete link to the impossible.
He looked at the remaining 10 points in his inventory. He could get a couple of energy bars for immediate sustenance, or save the points towards the first aid kit or the combat manual. Survival seemed paramount. He decided to hold onto the points for now, unsure what other challenges or opportunities might arise, what other necessities he might encounter. Resources felt precious, a limited currency in this new, unpredictable world.
He dismissed the Shop interface, the mental overlay vanishing, leaving him alone again in the jungle clearing. The dead monitor lizard lay a stark reminder of the brutal reality he now inhabited, the physical proof of his first trial. He had faced his first threat, survived through a desperate combination of ingrained skill and newfound physical capability, and gained his first tools from the System.
He ran a hand over the smooth, cool surface of the knife handle, gripping it tightly. It felt good, solid, a tangible piece of power and security in this strange, ancient world. He still had his ingrained combat knowledge, his peak body, and now... this. A System that gave quests and rewarded him with survival gear.
Middle of nowhere. 10th Century Philippines. Giant lizards. Unfeeling AI. And a knife. He shook his head, a small, grim smile touching his lips. It was insane. Utterly, completely insane. But he was alive. And for the first time in seventeen years, he felt capable. Truly capable.
He was alone. Completely, utterly alone. The weight of that realization settled over him, heavier than any physical burden he had ever known, far surpassing the limitations of his paralyzed body or the crushing weight of the mall's debris. A thousand years separated him from everything he knew, everyone he loved, the entire world he had called home. Not just a change of scenery, but a complete severing from his timeline. His family, his friends, the familiar comforts of modern life – hot showers, readily available food, instant information, medical care – all gone, irrevocably lost to the chasm of ten centuries. The shared history, the cultural touchstones, even the nuances of language he spoke would be alien here. Replaced by this: a prime body that felt both miraculous in its capability and alien in its sudden perfection, a silent, inscrutable System whose purpose was a mystery, and a primeval jungle teeming with unknown dangers, a world where survival was a brutal, moment-to-moment struggle. He was an anachronism, a ghost from the future, stranded in the deep past with only the raw power of his restored self and the cryptic aid of a digital entity.
Alright, Primordial Personal Development System. He thought, addressing the silent entity. You want me to 'develop'? Let's see what else you've got.
The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows through the trees, the light turning golden and then orange. He needed to find water, shelter, and figure out his next move before night fell. Survival was the immediate quest, far more pressing than any System prompt. But having the knife, having the confirmation that the System and its rewards were real, that this wasn't a hallucination... it changed things. It gave him a path, however unclear, in this impossible new life.
He looked at the dead monitor lizard one last time, a silent acknowledgment of the struggle, then turned, knife in hand, and began to move towards the setting sun, deeper into the ancient jungle, ready to face whatever came next.
