Fin sat on his bed with his legs crossed, opening the [ Absorption log ] interface in front of him.
[ Stat points available: 45 ]
[ Absorption log: 40 records ready for reclamation ]
[ EXP: 10,700 / 50,500 ]
"Let’s go shopping," he whispered eagerly, tapping the first batch of entries in the ledger.
He purchased the leftover Speed traits from three early orcs, spending twelve stat points in rapid succession.
A flood of golden warmth surged down through his thighs, tingling in his calves as his tendon fibers tightened.
[ Speed +4 acquired from record 01 ]
[ Speed +5 acquired from record 04 ]
[ Speed +5 acquired from record 09 ]
Next, he selected the leftover Agility and Strength traits from the Named Shadow Stalker entry.
[ Agility +10 acquired from record 40 ]
[ Strength +6 acquired from record 40 ]
The kinetic energy flooded into his chest, settling deep into his spine while his joints cracked softly in alignment.
The two Shadow Stalker traits cost eighteen points, leaving fifteen for the final pair of purchases.
He spent those points on Strength and Endurance, checking that the remaining balance reached zero.
[ Strength +6 acquired from record 02 ]
[ Endurance +10 acquired from record 30 ]
A cascade of golden notifications sprayed across his field of view, updating his overall status sheet.
[ Log reclaim yield: +1,500 EXP ]
[ Status overview: ]
[ Host: Fin ]
[ Rank: E+ ]
[ EXP: 12,200 / 50,500 ]
[ Level: 1 ]
[ Health: 180/180 ]
[ Mana: 40/40 ]
[ Strength: 41 ]
[ Agility: 58 ]
[ Endurance: 52 ]
[ Sense: 31 ]
[ Pulse: 5 ]
[ Potential: SSS ]
[ Inventory: unlocked (sub-space 10m³) ]
He stood up in the center of his bedroom, rotating his shoulders with wide eyes.
His body felt lighter than feathers, while every footstep on the floor carried the silent precision of a hunting cat.
He flexed his right hand, feeling enough raw tensile force in his grip to crush a padlock.
His reaction speed doubled, making the dust motes floating in the sunbeam appear to move in slow motion.
’Rank E-plus,’ he thought, smiling as he dismissed the golden screen. ’Now I need proper weapons.’
He pulled on his jacket, heading down to the industrial surplus depot in the rail yard district.
The depot was a cavernous warehouse filled with decommissioned military crates, tool racks, and salvage equipment.
Around the perimeter, sponsored hunters in composite armor looked down their noses at the budget bins.
An old clerk with a robotic eye chewed an unlit cigar behind a counter, reading a racing newspaper.
He browsed the weapon bins, looking past the ornamental longswords toward the compact close-quarters tools.
He selected a balanced hatchet with a textured grip and an armor-piercing spike on the reverse end.
Beside the hatchet, he picked two thirty-centimeter combat daggers with matte-black blades.
He tested the balance of the daggers, spinning the black blades across his knuckles in a fluid blur.
"Good balance on those blades," the clerk grunted, tapping the price tag with a metal knuckle. "Four hundred credits for the set."
He handed over four hundred-credit bills, tucking the hatchet into his belt and sheathing the twin daggers.
He bought a bottle of blade oil, two spare sharpening stones, and a roll of grip tape from the display rack.
He stopped by the local grocery market on his walk home, buying two bags of fresh potatoes, carrots, and sweet apples.
He carried the canvas bags up the apartment stairs, unlocking the front door before laying the three weapons across the dining table.
He focused his intent on the unlocked [ Inventory ] sub-space, reaching his hand toward the hatchet.
A subtle ripple of distorted air enveloped the weapon, and the hatchet vanished into empty space with a soft chime.
He touched both daggers, watching them dissolve into the invisible dimensional pocket in the blink of an eye.
With a thought, the right dagger rematerialized in his palm, resting perfectly in his grip without a millisecond of delay.
He practiced the summon five times, watching the black blade appear and disappear between his fingers like a magic trick.
He tested a wrench, keys, and a water bottle, watching each object enter storage before retrieving it by hand.
"Now that is convenient," he muttered with a broad grin, storing the dagger back into the inventory pocket. "No more carrying bulky bags through gate checkpoints."
The front door clicked open, and Jolly stepped into the apartment carrying her school folder.
She froze in the hallway, her sharp eyes locking directly onto his empty hands and the empty table.
She saw the thirty-centimeter combat blade vanish into thin air through the open doorway.
Jolly set her backpack down slowly, walking over to the table with her arms crossed over her sweater.
She tapped the empty tabletop where the weapons rested three seconds ago, looking up at him with a deadpan stare.
"A dagger," Jolly stated in a calm, flat tone. "It disappeared into thin air."
He scratched the back of his neck, his excuses collapsing before her analytical gaze.
"They were... tactical magic tricks," he offered with a sheepish grin.
Jolly pushed her glasses up her nose, pointing a finger at his chest.
"You said later, Fin," she whispered, crossing her arms tightly. "That was three weeks ago. Now your knives are flying into thin air."
He rubbed the back of his neck, staring down at his empty hands. "The school drills are starting, kiddo. I wanted to make sure the rent was cleared first."
"I’m keeping an accounting ledger," she said, her voice dropping as she pulled a small black notebook from her pocket. "Every unexplainable jump, every disappearing knife, every mysterious beef shank gets written down."
"You write down the beef shank?" He chuckled softly.
"Page three, right under the third-floor window calculation," she replied without cracking a smile. "You owe me the full story, no discounts. But you don’t get to die again."
"I won’t," he promised gently, pulling out a chair for her at the table. "I swear it."
He set a plate of sliced melon and sweet rice cakes in front of her.
He poured two cups of iced barley tea, sitting down across from her to listen to her school gossip.
They spent the next thirty minutes talking about her science teacher and the upcoming district math competition.
He watched her laugh and chew her snacks, feeling a warm, protective resolve settling deep in his chest.
He promised to buy her a new graphing calculator before the competition began next month.
Jolly gave him a rare, genuine smile, taking a sip of her barley tea.
"Don’t be late for dinner tonight," she said, opening her homework folder.
He walked into the kitchen, putting on his apron to begin peeling the potatoes for their beef stew.
He chopped the carrots into thick wheels, tossing the vegetables into the simmering pot alongside the braised meat.
The steam fogged the kitchen window, filling the apartment with the comforting aroma of home-cooked dinner.
He checked the simmering sauce with a spoon, adjusting the gas burner to a gentle low flame. The tender beef simmered in rich gravy, promising a filling meal for the two of them.
He leaned against the counter, smiling into the warm kitchen while his sister solved quadratic equations at the table.
His new blades sat safely inside his inventory matrix, his stats were surging, and life in District Four was finally looking up.