LAYTON
HUMAN
Humans are well-rounded and adaptable. Receives 5 free points per level.
CLASS
Healer (Level 12):Each core stat 1 per level; choose 5 Wis or Int, the other gets 2.Fighter (Level 1): Each core stat 1 per level; choose 5 Str or Agi, the other gets 2.STATS
HP: 66/66MP: 71/71Constitution: 46Strength: 46Agility: 45Wisdom: 52Intelligence: 61Sense: 29ABILITIES
Piercing Shot: Extends a sword’s piercing range. Scales with Str/Agi.Dash: Boosts user’s speed over short distances. Scales with Agi.SPELLS
Weak Heal: Minor healing, scales with Wis/Int.Weak Regenerate Health: Heals small amounts every 5 mins for 60 mins; duration strength scale with Wis.Weak Barrier: A protective shield that breaks after a damage threshold or 30 mins, whichever cos first. Scales with Int.OBJECTIVES
Clear the 3 dungeons in your region.TITLES
Forerunner: First to set foot on the new world ( 5% exp).Man or a Mouse: Forgo a full tutorial and remove fail-safes ( 10 to every stat, 10% each stat). Requirents: Survive the first trial. (t)Follow the Leader: Be the first human to slay a monster after induction ( 2 to each stat).A Path Paved in Blood: Slay 1,000 monsters first ( 5 to each stat).My numbers are really stacking up. I’ve noticed MP regeneration has skyrocketed—full recharge in about 90 minutes. And Weak Heal? During the centaur fight, it nearly maxed out in two casts. At Level 1? It barely gave 5 HP. The difference is staggering.
And physical power? That’s where it really shows. I barely need sleep. My body feels explosive.
Every muscle is prid, coiled— I throw up my best Olympian flex. Muscles tight. Coiled. Shredded? Absolutely. Built like a demigod? Not quite.
I drop the pose, shoulders slumping. Huh. Why wasn’t I growing like Mischief clearly was? Did that bother ? No, not really. It’s what’s on the inside that counts.
A grin tugs at my lips. One day in, and I’m already a monster. The levels alone are great for boosting my stats. But the titles? That’s the real ga changer.
The energy pounding in my veins demands motion. I glance up at the longsword strapped to my back. A little test run. Just a few swings. Feel the weight, the power.
My fingers twitch with anticipation. I roll my shoulders, stepping forward. With both hands I reach up and wrap my fingers around the grip of the blade. It feels warm.
My imagination plays a scene in my mind. Striking a pose. The setting sun at my back, casting a long, heroic shadow. A single fluid motion—sword held high, then dropping into a practiced stance. Perfect.
I picture the scene—flawless, effortless, legendary. The kind of mont that belongs in a cinematic masterpiece.
WHACK. The poml clocks in the skull. Graceful. Real graceful.
“Ow.” Rubbing my head, I silently curse every movie that made that look easy. I try again. This ti I’m more deliberate. The sword still catches at the end but with so effort and shuffling it cos free.
Oh yeah. My spirit weapon sings as I twirl through the crisp mountain air. I drop into a two handed stance and start twisting and swinging, my imaginary foes falling before like wheat.
Gurgle. The unstoppable warrior mont faceplants.
Gurgle.
I freeze. Then frown. Then rub my stomach.
A thought hits , sudden and brutal. It’s been a day and a half since I last ate. Not a damn thing. My stomach growls again—loud enough to send wildlife running.
Right. Food. Probably should fix that before I start thinking about conquering another dungeon.
I scan the clearing. After a quick search, I spot my backpack tucked under a pine tree.
One water jug survived. The other? A shredded corpse of plastic.
I plop down against a sturdy trunk and yank out an energy bar, savoring the bland-but-filling taste.
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Mischief saunters over, stretching luxuriously before settling a few feet away. His golden eyes blink at with cool disinterest.
Typical cat behavior. Just on a thousand-tis-bigger scale. I shoot him a sideways glance.
“Well,” I say, crumbs falling from my mouth, “we’ve been through a lot in a short ti.”
Mischief watches . Silent. Unreadable.
“If you hadn’t jumped in, I’d be dead. No question.”
A slow tail flick—the feline equivalent of "Yeah, whatever." I shake my head, smiling. “I’m glad you didn’t eat .”
He blinks. “And I owe you. So… thanks.”
A slow ear flick.
“I an, now that we’re out of the dungeon, you’re free to go if you want,” I add, half-expecting him to just walk off into the wild.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he stretches out, flicking his tail again. No intention of leaving. A small wave of relief settles in my chest.
I still don’t fully understand why he’s sticking around, but I’m not about to complain.
“Anyway,” I say, standing and brushing off my pants, “I can’t live on protein bars forever.”
His ears twitch. “"You’re a hunter, right?" Dumb question. He already hunted once.
Mischief tilts his head slightly.
“How about scrounging up a rabbit or sothing? You hunt, I loot, we both eat.”
For a second, he just stares. Then, without warning, he turns and vanishes into the trees.
I stare. Dumbfounded. Had I pushed too far? Been too casual? Cats probably hated being told what to do.
Did I just scare off the only friend I had in the world? I pinch the bridge of my nose. When was I going to learn to just shut my stupid mouth?
-
The Loss of Mischief Stings.
I try to tell myself it’s not a big deal. That I barely knew him. That he might’ve killed in my sleep.
But we fought together. Side by side. Trusted each other, however briefly. And now?
Gone.
Hands shoved deep in my pockets, I walk—okay, mope—through the clearing, kicking at stray pebbles like a sulking teenager. My brilliant coping strategy? Gathering firewood. Productive and distracting.
It doesn’t take long before I spot the perfect mark—a dead pine tree, fifteen feet tall, five inches thick. Perfect. Firewood acquired. A grin tugs at my lips as I unsheathe my spirit longsword, the motion still awkward, but improving. The polished steel gleams, and for a mont, everything else fades.
Ti for a test.
I swing. The blade carves through the trunk like wet paper. Perfect execution. My montum? Not so much.
My body spins. My boot catches a rock. I crash straight onto my ass.
The tree teeters. Wobbles. And, with a leisurely sense of inevitability, flops directly onto my head.
I groan, staring at the sky. “Really?”
At least Mischief isn’t here to witness this one.
Dragging the tree back to camp is effortless. A reminder of just how much stronger I’ve beco. Within minutes, I’ve got a fire going. Good thing I rembered my lighter– or else this trip could’ve been crazy…
Watching the flas twist and curl, my mind drifts—circling back to things I don’t want to think about. Sitting still isn’t an option. Shelter’s next.
I busy myself cutting and dragging logs back to the fire. Once I’ve gathered enough, I start piecing it together.
I step back, hands on hips, admiring my work. My Frankenstein shelter stands—a blight against the beauty of the woods. It’s not a shelter. It’s a wall. I shrug—worst case, I’ve got the picnic blanket.
The sun dips toward the horizon. A rustle. My head snaps up. I reach instinctively to my weapon. My eyes dart in the direction of the noise.
Mischief erges from the treeline, his massive form shifting through shadow. I don’t move. Barely breathe. My grip stays firm on my weapon.
For what feels an eternity neither of us move. Slowly. I lower my hand. If Mischief was going to attack it would be an ambush. Not walking directly into camp in plain sight.
Our eyes et.
He dips his head. Lifts a paw. And taps at empty air. A flash of eerie light.
Then—
THUD. The earth trembles. A thousand-pound moose materializes out of thin air—an ungodly heap of fur, antlers, and sheer bulk—slamming into the dirt like a wrecking ball.
I stumble back, jaw unhinged.
“Wha—HOW?!”
My brain barely catches up. Dinsional storage. Mischief fixes with a smug, half-lidded stare. Tail flick.
He knew exactly how hard that would blow my mind. “You have a dinsional storage!?”
Mischief blinks. Slow. Deliberate. A masterclass in condescension. Smug bastard.
“That’s—” I exhale. “That’s pretty aweso.”
Mischief noses the moose. Proud as can be. I step forward, shaking my head. “This is one hell of a rabbit.”
Mischief’s ears flick in amusent. I reach down to loot the moose. The carcass dissolves into neat piles of at, antlers, and bones.
Even with our boosted Strength, hauling everything back to the fire takes effort.
Mischief eyes my sad-looking lean-to. I swear I see mild amusent in his gaze.
I ignore it.
Instead, I watch as he flops down near the flas, tearing into raw at. Relief washes over , sharper than expected. I didn’t realize how much I wanted him to stay—until now.
“Feel free to store the rest,” I say, shrugging. “My storage chest is fine, but your dinsional thing is way cooler.”
Mischief taps the remaining cuts. They vanish. I groan. “Man, that’s not fair.” Still—I grin.
“So… are you planning to stick around? I think we make a pretty decent team.”
Mischief’s ear flicks. That’s… probably a yes.
“My non-verbal communication needs a bit of work. Is that a yes?”
Mischief eyes my small fire and then lies down a small ways off.
I take that as a more solid “yes”. The relief is imdiate.
Sure, I can probably manage dungeons alone…
But having Mischief along? That’s a big comfort.
I place a beat-up pan over the fire and drop in a thick slab of moose at. The sizzle and crackle is music to my ears.
Just a day and a half ago, I was practically helpless. Now?
I’m stronger than I’ve ever been, by a LOT. Sitting beside a fire. Cooking dinner.
Talking to a mountain lion that hours ago tried to kill .
Flas crackle. at sizzles. Mischief stretches, eyes glinting in the firelight. A new world. A new life. And sohow, for the first ti since this all began—
I breathe.
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