Just when the System had finished handing one suicide note disguised as a quest, it chid again like an unpaid credit card reminder.
I was just thinking about how to do the first one.
But sure, let's stack more on the "How to die creatively" to-do list. More quests ant more rewards or Exps.
Show the second quest.
[ Quest: Side Gig ]
[ Details: Daily, for five years, before the day ends, go out and kill one guard of Malthus. There are many of them roaming around so it will be easy for you to find one. Use whatever ans necessary but it should only be you killing them. No outside help you can take. Only one guard you have to kill. You can make it two but not zero. ]
[ Rewards: One Skill after each successful killing. 100 Exps as well. You will level up using them. ]
[ Failure: Death. ]
[ Quest Duration: Five Years ]
Da fuck? What kind of quest is this?
[ The manly kind. ]
Oh yeah? At least ask the man whom you are turning manly.
[ Look, Racis. I'll be honest with you. You are the leader of all these humans and the safety of the planet is in your hands. This planet is without its God and it won't be able to work that well without a God. Supre Man has to wake up and it will only happen when you are strong enough. You have to learn to fight. And killing the guards will only make you able to use the training of Sexis' mother in real life daily. This is for your own good. ]
Alright. Who are you?
[ I am the sa. ]
No way. That thing never talked to like this. Did you fall in love with ?
[ I would rather fondle Sexis' tentacles. ]
Yeah. You are the sa. Anyway, since you said all that, I will show you I am a man too.
[ Yes. Kill the boy and let the man be born. ]
Don't say that. Copyright would fondle my balls then.
[ Right. Carry on. Make sure to tell Sexis' mother about this quest though. She might not let you leave this basent if she doesn't see any good reason to. ]
Got it.
The system went silent after that andI turned my attention to Sexis' mom. She'd been talking this whole ti while I pretended to listen — classic student move.
Because let's be honest, one wrong blink and that woman might turn into an olette for disrespect.
"Alright," she said, voice sharp enough to shave gods and pierce turtle houses. "First of all, you all will do a hundred push-ups, a hundred laps around the basent, a hundred squats, and three hours of deep ditation."
"Yes!" everyone shouted — including — like a choir of idiots volunteering for hell.
ditation though… that's where I'd die.
I can't sit still for one damn second.
My thoughts run faster than cops behind black n.
But I had to do it. Failure ant death — and I wasn't ready to die before breakfast.
Stronges carried on.
"After doing that, you all will practice with the Nano bites."
"Huh? What the hell is that?"
"They are the robots who served you food yesterday. Excellent fighters. One Nano Bite can take down twenty of you. I made them myself back on my planet."
Of course you did.
Because normal moms bake cookies — and this one manufactures Terminators for fun.
"I needed sparring partners," she continued, "but no other alien dared to fight . So I created thousands."
Thousands.
Lady, that's not training, that's a cry for therapy.
"Anyway," she went on like One Piece, "after your warm-up, you'll fight one Nano for five hours straight, then go hunt for food in the forest. It will seem harsh, but that's how you gain freedom. Scholars can go and fuck themselves. Brute strength wins wars. When you're ready, I'll fight beside you. Together we'll win our independence!"
She said it so passionately that my brain stopped roasting her halfway through.
By the end, I was ready to die for her cause — or at least pull a muscle for it. Now I know how that Austrian painter almost won.
"Yes!" I shouted, with the energy of a toddler pledging allegiance to chaos.
"YES!" echoed everyone else.
Even the aliens were hyped.
Stronges looked proud enough to flex her ego into orbit.
"Good," she said. "Start now. Hundred rounds around the basent. Go! And don't try being oversmart — the Nano Bites are watching you. Closely."
She shouted, and everyone bolted like their unpaid debts just called them through WhatsApp.
She jogged too. No, sprinted.
We hadn't even finished one lap before she was already lapping us twice — like a treadmill possessed by God or Goggins.
"Don't copy ," she called out, "I do this daily. A thousand tis."
A thousand?
Ma'am, that's not fitness. That's a war cri on your own body.
I didn't feel ashad, though.
You can't compete with a woman who probably eats lightning for breakfast.
After — I don't know how many hours or ntal breakdowns — we finally finished the laps.
Our lungs scread like pseudo feminists, our souls cried, and Stronges yelled, "Push-ups now!"
My body begged for rcy.
She gave none.
This woman was Satan's personal trainer.
I wasn't even done with one push-up when she finished three.
At this point, I suspected she was fueled by pure spite or caffeine or unicorn sen.
Still, I held on — because failure = death = not a fun combo.
After what felt like seven hours (or eternity), we finally wrapped up the warm-up: A hundred laps, a hundred push-ups, a hundred squats, and three hours of "ditation" (read: internal screaming).
Now ca the real nightmare — fighting the Nano Bites.
I looked at those shiny tallic things. They were small, cute even, like robotic puppies.
But I've seen enough ani to know cute things are what kill you the worst.
And she called them Nano Bites.
Yeah, I'm entirely sure they bite — both physically and existentially.
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