Chapter 2: The System of Grit
Awareness hit him like a freight train, fueled by adrenaline and a deep, aching discomfort.
Raizo gasped as he shot upright from a straw mattress that felt more like a bed of needles. For a brief, frightening moment, the world around him swirled into a whirlpool of gray shapes and muffled noises. The air was off—it didn't carry the scent of Tokyo's alleys.
He shut his eyes tightly, his heart pounding wildly against his chest. Thump-thump-thump—a frantic rhythm that felt overwhelming. It was too fast, too loud. Each heartbeat echoed like a frantic drumbeat of anxiety.
Suddenly, something changed behind his eyelids.
A sharp, red image erupted in his mind, burning into his vision like a distorted glitch from a broken arcade game. It was nothing like the gentle, dreamy blue of the First King's video log.
[SOUL SYNC: 99%... COMPLETE]
[HOST BODY: DETECTED – Darius Visione]
[STATUS: CRITICAL]
[INITIATING SUB-SYSTEM: GRIT]
[VERSION: ERROR]
Raizo flinched, waving a hand in front of his face as if to swat a fly. The text followed, a phantom overlay that bled into the real world. "What the..." he rasped, the voice that emerged from his throat a dry.
The text pulsed.
[WELCOME, USER]
[HOST ANALYSIS: COMPLETE]
[WARNING: MULTIPLE SYSTEM CONFLICTS DETECTED]
[REPLACING DOMINANT OS: 'EMBLEM'... REPLACEMENT FAILED]
[BOOTING ANOMALOUS PROTOCOL: GRIT SYSTEM]
A new window suddenly appeared, stark and jarring amid his bewilderment. It displayed a stat sheet that felt less like a typical character creation screen.
[USER STATUS: KATSURAGI, RAIZO]
[HOST VESSEL: Darius Visione (DEBUFFED)]
[TRUE POTENTIAL: UNLOCKED]
Raizo's gaze was fixed on the screen as his mind raced to make sense of the flood of information. Katsuragi, Raizo. But Darius Visione? That name felt unfamiliar in his thoughts.
"Show me the stats," he murmured, the words unfamiliar and strange on his lips.
The red text began to scroll before him, filling his vision.
[=== ATTRIBUTE BREAKDOWN ===]
[JUMP]
Host Limit: F- (MALNUTRITION / WEAK LEGS)
User Potential: S-RANK (EXPLOSIVE VERTICAL)
Note: Host leg structure cannot currently support User's muscle memory. High probability of self-injury.
[SPEED]
Host Limit: E- (ZERO ENDURANCE / POOR CARDIO)
User Potential: A-RANK (BURST ACCELERATION)
Note: Host body lacks fast-twitch muscle fiber. User must forcibly override biological limitations.
[STRENGTH]
Host Limit: D- (MUSCULAR ATROPHY)
User Potential: B-RANK (BRUTE FORCE)
Note: User possesses abnormal grip strength. Latent potential ready for forced unlock.
[SHOT]
Host Limit: N/A (NO TRAINING)
User Potential: E-RANK (UGLY FORM)
Note: User's shooting mechanics are non-standard. Relies on latent skill [Physics Glitch]. Accuracy is currently non-existent.
[READ]
Host Limit: C- (BASIC EDUCATION)
User Potential: D-RANK (INSTINCTIVE)
Note: User possesses low tactical awareness. High reactive intelligence. Unpredictable.
[STAMINA]
Host Limit: F- (STARVATION / EXHAUSTION)
User Potential: S-RANK (INFINITE RESERVE)
Note: User's willpower can override physical fatigue. Host body will collapse long before User's will does.
Raizo stared at the glowing red text, a cold dread warring with a flicker of something else. Something dangerous. "User Potential..." he murmured. "So you're telling me I'm an S-Rank player trapped in the body of a Level 1 commoner?"
[AFFIRMATIVE.]
"And this... Grit?" he asked, his eyes tracing the words.
[=== SPECIAL STAT: GRIT ===]
[CURRENT VALUE: 100 / 100 (STARTER FILL)]
[EFFECT 1: PAIN-TO-ENERGY CONVERSION] - Converts a percentage of physical damage and mental fatigue into usable energy (Grit Points).
[EFFECT 2: LIMITER OVERRIDE] - Allows user to ignore 'Emblem' mana caps and skill requirements. Actions are fueled by Grit, not Mana.
[WARNING:] High Grit usage triggers 'System Siphon.' Prolonged Siphon will result in permanent life-force drain.
Raizo let out a dry, raspy laugh that echoed harshly in the stillness of the room. "No mana and limiters? So I just pay with pain?" he murmured as he glanced at his hands. Unlike the rough, scarred knuckles he was used to from the streets of Tokyo, these hands were smaller and softer, their skin pale and unblemished. He quickly pushed himself off the bed, his legs landing on the chilly, uneven floorboards, sending a sharp pain up through his shins.
[STAMINA -1%]
[BODY STRESS LEVELS INCREASING]
He stumbled over to a cracked, water-streaked mirror that hung precariously on the wall. The reflection looking back at him felt like a stranger. His messy blonde hair seemed to defy gravity, while his pale skin suggested he hadn't seen sunlight in ages. His sharp blue eyes were wide, filled with both confusion and anger. While his face was undeniably handsome, it lacked the roughness of experience—smooth and unmarred, belonging to a boy who had never faced a real fight.
"Darius," he murmured, as the name emerged from the chaotic flood of new memories rushing through his mind. Darius Visione. The eldest son. A disgraced noble. A slacker.
Raizo grasped the edges of the washbasin, his knuckles going white with the intensity of his grip. The dream—the transmission from that "First King" guy—was already starting to fade.l.
Suddenly, the red interface scrolled again, expanding to fill the center of his vision.
[=== TUTORIAL QUEST INITIATED ===]
[QUEST: THE FIRST MEAL]
[OBJECTIVE: Consume 500 calories to stabilize host body.]
[REWARD: +10 Grit Points. Unlock Passive Skill: [Hunger Resistance LVL 1].]
[FAILURE PENALTY: Host body will enter shutdown state in 3 hours. Coma imminent.]
Raizo fixed his gaze on the quest details, taking a moment to survey his surroundings. The room was cramped and in disarray—a bare bed, a tiny table, and a cold fireplace. There was nothing to eat.
Suddenly, the door creaked open.
He quickly turned, instinctively dropping into a defensive posture. His fists clenched tightly, prepared to fight if necessary. The quick movement ignited fresh pain throughout his aching body.
[STRENGTH CHECK: FAILED TO MAINTAIN STANCE]
[PAIN TO GRIT CONVERSION: +0.1 GP]
A woman stood in the doorway, her small frame looking fragile from years of not enough food, yet she held herself with a strict posture that spoke of a lost gentility. Her dress, a faded collection of once-luxurious fabrics stitched together with rough thread, looked like a tapestry from better days. Worry etched lines on her face, but her pale blue eyes—so similar to Darius's—held a gentler softness.
Isolde Visione. His mother.
The moment she spotted him, she froze, her eyes widening as they quickly scanned him for any signs of harm. "Darius?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "You... you're awake."
Raizo didn't lower his guard. He remained pressed against the wall, muscles tense. In his experience, adults didn't come into a room to check on you; they barged in to shout, to punish, to make demands. "What do you want?" he retorted sharply. The words were Darius's, but the attitude was unmistakably that of a Tokyo Yankee.
Isolde flinched, but she didn't back away. She took a tentative step forward, her hands wringing a piece of cloth. "I... I heard you moving. I brought you something."
She moved toward the small table, placing a wooden bowl down. The smell hit him instantly—a watery porridge that smelled of burnt oats. His stomach, let out a loud, embarrassing growl.
Raizo stared at the bowl. The steam curled up in the cold air, carrying the scent of boiled cabbage. The red text in his vision is updated.
[OBJECTIVE ITEM IDENTIFIED: WATERY OATMEAL]
[CALORIC COUNT: APPROXIMATELY 175. INSUFFICIENT.]
"Darius?" Isolde's voice was soft, trembling. She was standing right in front of him now, her hand raised as if to touch his shoulder, but stopping halfway, as if afraid he might burn her.
Raizo blinked. He looked at Isolde, then at the wooden bowl of porridge on the table. The system's quest.
"Thanks for the meal," he muttered, the words coming out harsher than he intended. He sat down on the edge of the bed, the frame groaning in protest. He picked up the wooden spoon. It was rough against his palm. The porridge was gray and lumpy. He took a bite. It tasted like wet cardboard. He ate it anyway. He ate it because he remembered the feeling of hunger in his past life, and because this woman—this stranger who was apparently his mother—had likely skipped her own portion to give it to him.
[QUEST PROGRESS: 175 / 500 CALORIES]
Isolde watched him, a small, sad smile touching her lips. She didn't eat. She just sat on a wooden stool in the corner, mending a tunic that was mostly patches. "You've been asleep for two days," she said quietly. "The fever was bad. I... I thought I was going to lose you."
Raizo didn't respond. He scraped the bottom of the bowl, chasing every last drop. "I'm fine."
"Your father is out looking for work," she continued, her voice straining to keep a cheerful tone. "There's talk of a shipment coming in from the capital. Maybe they'll need strong backs at the docks."
Raizo looked up. The memories in Darius's head provided the context. Work was scarce in Ashwood. A fallen noble like Elias Visione was often turned away from manual labor jobs—he was too soft.
"I'll handle it," Raizo said.
Isolde laughed. It had a dry, brittle sound. "Oh, Darius. You're a sweet boy, and brave, but..." She trailed off, not wanting to say the rest: but you're weak.
"I said I'll handle it," he repeated.
Before she could respond, a heavy fist pounded on the front door of the cottage. The entire thin wall shook. Isolde froze, her face draining of what little color it had. She shot a panicked look at Raizo. "Don't answer that," she hissed, jumping to her feet. "Go out the window. Hide in the woods."
"Why?" Raizo asked, already moving toward the door.
"It's the Squire. Valerius."
Raizo didn't hide. He walked toward the door, his body screaming in protest. "I got this."
"Darius, no! You can't speak to him like that, he'll—"
The door was kicked inward. The frame splintered, dust puffing into the room. Standing in the doorway was a man who filled the space with his sheer arrogance. He wore a velvet doublet dyed a deep royal blue, the fabric stained with mud at the hems but clearly expensive. A heavy iron emblem was pinned to his chest—a hexagonal crystal glowing with a faint, condescending blue light.
Raizo's Grit System went haywire.
[HOSTILE ENTITY DETECTED: VALERIUS]
[CLASS: SQUIRE (TIER 2)]
[EMBLEM TIER: GOLD]
[MANA POOL: 850 / 850]
[SKILLS ANALYZED: [COMMANDING PRESENCE] (PASSIVE), [AUTHORITY'S GAZE] (ACTIVE)]
[THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE]
Behind Valerius stood two guards in leather armor, holding halberds. They looked bored.
"Charming," Valerius said, his voice dripping with disdain as he looked around the room. "I see the stench of poverty has finally rotted the floorboards."
Isolde rushed forward, bowing low. "Lord Squire. We... we weren't expecting you."
Raizo stood his ground near the bed. He didn't bow. He watched Valerius with the same flat, predatory gaze he had given the gang leader in Tokyo. The Squire's eyes locked onto his. He smiled, a cruel, thin expression. "And here is the little lordling. Awake, are we? Finally showing its teeth."
Raizo's jaw tightened. He felt a familiar heat building in his chest.
"What do you want?" Raizo asked.
Isolde gasped. "Darius! Apologize!"
Valerius held up a hand, silencing her. He pulled a scroll from his belt, unrolling it with a flourish. "I'm here for the Tithe, of course. The Royal Academy requires its fees for the upcoming term. The 'Visione Legacy,' as it were." He spat the word 'Legacy' like it was a curse.
"We paid," Raizo said, accessing Darius's memories. "Last month. We sold the silver."
"That was for the taxes, you idiot," Valerius laughed, turning to his guards. The guards laughed, a practiced, synchronized sound.
"We... we don't have the coin," Isolde said, her voice trembling. "Please, my lord, give us time. Just until the harvest."
"Time?" Valerius stepped closer, looming over Raizo. He tapped the crystal emblem on his chest. "The Kingdom doesn't run on patience, peasant. It runs on Gold. And if you can't pay the Gold... your contract is void."
He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried the stench of expensive perfume. "Which means your son is now property of the Guild."
Raizo looked at the blue crystal on the Squire's chest. Then he looked down at his own chest. Nothing but rough wool.
"I can pay for it," Raizo said.
The room went silent. Isolde covered her mouth with a gasp. Valerius stopped laughing. He looked at Raizo, then at Isolde, and then he laughed. He laughed until he wheezed. "This... this is the best entertainment I've had all week. You? Pay it? Doing what? Digging ditches with those pathetic arms?"
He stepped forward and kicked the bed frame. The wood cracked. "You're nothing, Darius. Your name is a joke. Your bloodline is a stain. And by the end of the harvest, you will be gone. Either to the mines, or to the grave."
He turned to leave. "Enjoy your last week of freedom, peasants. The debt comes due in full on the first of the month. And if you can't pay... well, let's just say the Ironspire mines are always looking for... durable hands."
He stopped at the door, looking back. "Oh, and Darius? Try not to die before I get back. It would be... inconvenient."
They left. The guards slammed the door behind them, shattering the weak latch. The cold air rushed in.
Isolde collapsed onto the stool, sobbing into her hands. "We're doomed, Darius."
Raizo stood there, shivering in his thin tunic. The anger was there, boiling in his gut. With Darius's body, he couldn't fight them. He was weak. He was useless.
He looked at Isolde. He looked at the empty hearth. The red text of his quest burned in his vision. [325 / 500 CALORIES].
"I need to go out," he said.
"Where?" she cried.
"To find more food," Raizo said. He grabbed his jacket—the rough, woolen thing that offered no warmth. "And to earn us some money."
The journey to the trading town lasted two hours, but it felt like it stretched on forever. With each step, he was reminded of how his body was letting him down.
[STAMINA -5%]
[STAMINA -7%]
[LEG MUSCLE STRESS: CRITICAL]
He walked through the scenery with his gaze lowered. The path beneath him was tough, hardened dirt, marked with deep grooves left by heavy wagons. He paid no attention to the villagers around him, disregarding their pitying glances and mocking smirks.
At last, he discovered what he had been searching for tucked away in an alley behind a butcher shop. There stood a wall plastered with layers of flaking paper. It was the "Job Board." Raizo halted in front of it, carefully examining the postings.
Wanted: Ditch Diggers. 2 Copper a day.
Wanted: Sewer Cleaners. 3 Copper a day.
Wanted: Rat Catchers. 1 Copper per tail.
His stomach was in knots. Digging ditches simply wouldn't cover the interest. He needed cash, and he needed it quickly. Just then, he spotted something. A bright red flyer was stapled over a notice about some missing sheep. It was poorly illustrated, showing a basketball hoop with chains instead of a net, and a skull on the ball.
THE GALLOWS
Tonight. Moonrise.
The Cellar Beneath The Rusty Anchor.
3v3. DEATH MATCH RULES.
Winner Takes All: 50 SILVER PURSE.
NO REFUNDS.
Raizo stared at the number. 50 Silver.
"Death match," he muttered. He looked down at his hands. Darius's hands. Soft, trembling from the cold. "Better than freezing to death," he whispered.
But first, he had to complete his quest. He spent the last of his meager coin on a loaf of dense, dark bread and a hunk of cheese. He devoured it on the spot, not even tasting it.
[QUEST: THE FIRST MEAL - COMPLETE]
[REWARD: +10 GRIT POINTS]
[PASSIVE SKILL UNLOCKED: [Hunger Resistance LVL 1] - NEGATIVE STAMINA EFFECTS FROM STARVATION REDUCED BY 5%]
[GRIT POOL: 110 / 110]
It was a small victory, but it felt meaningful. Raizo noticed a slight easing of his fatigue, as if a weight had lifted just a bit. He had discovered a new ally—a fresh way to fight back.
He arrived at the Rusty Anchor tavern and made his way down to the cellar. The atmosphere was heavy with the smells of sweat and old beer. The space resembled a cavern, with a dirt floor in the middle. An iron hoop loomed overhead, reinforced and fitted with a chain net that seemed dangerously sharp.
Around the edges of the room, men gathered, shouting out bets. Raizo slipped to the side, blending into the shadows as he observed the ongoing match. It wasn't a game of skill or magic; it was a messy brawl fueled by pure strength. They were tossing around a heavy, worn-out Type-B leather ball.
[WEAPON IDENTIFIED: LEATHER BALL (TYPE-B)]
[STATS: -50% RESPONSIVENESS, -30% BOUNCE, -20% GRIP IN WET CONDITIONS]
[USER PROFICIENCY: N/A]
He needed to practice. He needed to understand this world's physics with his own body. He left the tavern and found the village court. It was pathetic. A rectangle of packed dirt and uneven cobblestones, a single rusted hoop hanging at a sickening angle.
He bent down and picked up a discarded Leather Ball. It felt familiar. He squeezed it, and bounced it.
Thud.
No life. The ball hit the packed dirt and died, barely coming back up to his waist.
"Garbage," he muttered.
He bounced it again. Thud. The vibration rattled his wrists.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: NEW GRIND QUEST AVAILABLE]
[QUEST: 1,000 TOUCHES]
[OBJECTIVE: Make contact with the ball 1,000 times (dribbles, passes, shots).
[REWARD: +1 SPEED STAT, +1 BALL CONTROL STAT.]
[ACCEPT? Y/N]
"Yes," Raizo growled.
And so he began. He dribbled. Thud. Thud. Thud. The rhythm was monotonous, painful. The vibrations traveled up his arms, a dull, constant ache.
[TOUCH COUNT: 15... 16... 17]
He approached the free throw line, a worn mark in the ground about fifteen feet from the weathered hoop. Gripping the ball, he recalled the words of the First King: the ball doesn't judge between a king and a commoner.
Lifting the ball into position, he was aware of how awkward his form was. It was a clumsy two-handed toss, with his elbow sticking out and no follow-through at all. It was an abomination to the art of shooting.
Then he let the ball fly.
[SKILL ATTEMPTED: [THE "UGLY" SHOT]]
[MANA COST: 0]
[GRIT COST: 5]
[PHYSICS GLITCH: ACTIVATED]
The heavy leather ball soared through the chilly air, but it didn't travel in a straight line. It wobbled and fluttered, following a wild, unpredictable course. When it struck the front of the rim, it made a dull clang—a sound that felt flat and unsatisfying. It ricocheted back and slammed into his chest..
"Gah!" Raizo gasped, the wind knocked out of him. He stumbled back, clutching his ribs.
[PAIN DETECTED: BLUNT FORCE TRAUMA TO RIBCAGE]
[GRIT CONVERSION: +2 GP]
[GRIT POOL: 107 / 110]
He gazed down at the ball nestled in the mud. He hadn't even come close to hitting the backboard. It felt like a defeat. But then, the system—this system—had somehow turned his failure into something beneficial. It had acknowledged his struggle.
A slow, unsettling smile crept onto his face as he examined his hands. They were sore and chafed from the rough leather. He reached down and grasped the ball.
He shot again. Clang. Off the side.
[PAIN DETECTED: MINOR. GRIT CONVERSION: +0.5 GP]
Again. Thud. Hit the post.
[PAIN DETECTED: MINOR. GRIT CONVERSION: +0.5 GP]
Again. Clang.
[PAIN DETECTED: MINOR. GRIT CONVERSION: +0.5 GP]
He settled into a routine—one that was filled with misery, desperation, and pain. The only sound echoing through the village square was the thud of the ball against the iron. This wasn't practice; it was hard work. Each missed shot served as a reminder of his shortcomings, but it also contributed to his resilience. He was turning his failures into motivation.
[TOUCH COUNT: 478... 479... 480]
[GRIT POOL: 125 / 110 (OVERCHARGE ACTIVE)]
[WARNING: SYSTEM SIPHON IMMINENT IF OVERCHARGE PERSISTS]
He was indifferent to it all. The sensation of the knife still lingered in his mind, along with the image of blood pooling on the asphalt and Akira's desperate screams. The memory of Squire Valerius's mocking grin also haunted him.
"Come on!" he yelled at the hoop, his voice cracking under the strain. "Just one! Just one damn shot!"
He took another shot, but the ball veered off course, splashing into the mud. Instead of chasing after it right away, he stayed in the paint, his chest beating rapidly as sweat chilled on his forehead. His hands were torn and bleeding, the rough leather of the ball having ripped open his skin.
[STATUS EFFECT: [BLEEDING] (PALMS)]
[STAMINA DRAIN INCREASED]
[PAIN DETECTED: LACERATIONS. GRIT CONVERSION: +5 GP]
He stared at his bloodied hands, the jagged red letters pulsing in front of him. It clicked; this wasn't a curse after all, it was more like a cheat code. While the world operated according to the principles of mana and magic, he operated under a different set of rules: those of pain and resolve.
He approached the ball, dusted off the mud with his tunic, and noticed the crimson streaks staining the worn leather. It transformed in his mind from just a ball into something much more significant—a tool and a weapon.
Taking a deep breath, he felt the sharp chill of the air sting his lungs. He returned to his relentless pursuit, ready to face whatever lay ahead.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sun began to set, casting long shadows across the court.