A month had passed since I started training seriously.
I didn't even notice how fast it went.
The days blended together into the same routine: work, tasks, running, books, rare conversations, exhaustion, sleep.
The System no longer felt alien — it became background noise, like the weather or the hum of the city.
And the results were… noticeable.
Strength — Level 10.
Endurance — Level 12.
Intelligence — Level 11.
I thought faster. Planned more clearly.
My body responded better than it ever had before. Even the courier job on the bike no longer drained me the way it had during the first weeks.
But there was one problem.
Charisma.
Level 4.
Fully developed. Locked. Frozen.
No matter what I tried — it wouldn't go any higher.
I opened task windows again and again, and every time it felt like the System was mocking me.
— Sing karaoke during peak hours.
— Participate in an amateur theater performance.
— Publicly speak in front of an unfamiliar audience of at least thirty people.
I closed the windows one after another.
I didn't have money for karaoke.
I didn't have clothes suitable for it.
And most importantly — I didn't have the mental readiness.
These weren't "difficult" tasks.
They were чужие.
They weren't mine.
Every time I saw the penalty — **Charisma -2** — I didn't even consider risking it.
Because I knew: if I failed, it wouldn't just roll back the stat. It would crush what little confidence I had.
And slowly, it started to irritate me.
Every other stat was growing.
But Charisma felt like it had hit a wall.
That day, I talked with Mark.
We were riding side by side after our shift when he suddenly said, casually:
"Hey… you know some people level up through betting, right?"
I tensed.
"What kind of betting?"
"Illegal. On levels. On stats. People stake what they have… and either win big or lose everything."
He said it calmly. Too calmly.
I immediately shook my head.
"No. That's not for me."
My father's face flashed before my eyes.
My mother's tears.
The night the police knocked on our door.
"I promised my mom," I added. "I won't get involved in that."
Mark shrugged.
"Yeah, I get it. Just saying."
Then, quieter:
"There are other illegal ways to make money too. If you ever—"
"No," I cut him off. "Seriously. No."
That ended the conversation.
But not the thoughts.
That evening, at home, I sat at the table for a long time, staring into nothing.
Mom was stuck on Strength.
It was her weakest stat.
She'd hit a task requiring a profession-change artifact and blue crystals that… simply didn't exist for us.
Dad was stuck on Intelligence.
And the more I thought about it, the clearer one detail became.
He wasn't stupid.
He just couldn't move forward.
I remembered fragments of conversations. His frustration. His attempts to "jump" the stage.
And suddenly I understood:
He had probably bet on Intelligence.
Because that was his dead end.
His wall.
I wasn't planning to bet.
But…
to find out?
I picked up my phone.
Stared at the name in my contacts for a long time.
Then pressed **Call**.
"Hey, Mark," I said when he answered.
"You mentioned that place… where people make illegal bets on levels."
I swallowed.
"Can you… take me there?"
On the other end of the line, there was a brief pause.