The first thing Raizo feels was pain. Every muscle was a knotted rope, every joint a hinge rusted solid. The simple act of opening his eyes sent a bolt of fire down his spine.
[STATUS: SEVERE MUSCULAR FATIGUE]
[MULTIPLE LACERATIONS (PALMS) - HEALING]
[STAMINA: 15%]
[GRIT POOL: 135 / 135]
The red text burned against the back of his eyelids. He lay on the straw mattress, the rough fabric scraping against his skin like sandpaper. The air was cold that seeped into the bones and promised a long, miserable winter. The hearth was cold, the embers from last night's fire were nothing but grey ash.
The door creaked open. Raizo didn't need to look. He could feel the shift in the air, the hesitant footsteps. Isolde. Her presence was a soft.
He heard her set something down—a small clay bowl, the clink of a spoon. Then came the sound of water being poured into a basin. He squeezed his eyes shut, feigning sleep. He didn't have the energy for this. For her kindness.
"Oh, Darius," she whispered, her voice thick with a sorrow that felt older than the hills. "Your hands..."
He felt her presence beside him, a warmth that was both comforting and terrifying. He flinched as her fingers, gentle brushed against his bandaged knuckles. The makeshift linen wrappings were caked with dried blood and dirt.
"I... I brought some warm water," she said. "To clean them."
Raizo's jaw tightened. On the streets of Tokyo, a stranger offering help was a prelude to a trap. A distraction while an accomplice picked your pocket. A setup for a beating. He forced his eyes open, his wolf-like gaze flat and guarded. "Don't."
The single word was a stone dropped into the quiet room. Isolde flinched back as if struck. "I just... they look infected."
"They're fine," he rasped, pushing himself up into a sitting position. The movement cost him. The world swam, and the red text in his vision flickered.
[STAMINA -2%]
[BODY STRESS LEVELS INCREASING]
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the cold, uneven floorboards. Every muscle screamed in protest. He ignored it. He was used to ignoring pain.
Isolde watched him, her hands wringing a damp cloth. "You were out there all night. After the Squire left... I was so worried."
Raizo didn't respond. He stumbled to the cracked mirror hanging on the wall. The reflection was a stranger's, pale, with haunted blue eyes. But the hands... the hands were starting to feel like his again. They were raw, stinging, but they were his. They were the tools he would use to claw his way out of this pit.
His gaze fell upon the small wooden table. The bowl of porridge from yesterday was gone. In its place was a single, small roll of dark bread and a cup of water. That was their breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
A new red notification blinked into existence, a stark, glowing box that seemed to absorb all the light in the room.
[=== QUEST FAILED: THE FIRST MEAL ===]
[OBJECTIVE: Consume 500 calories to stabilize host body.]
[TIME ELAPSED: 8 HOURS, 14 MINUTES]
[PENALTY: HOST BODY HAS ENTERED 'STARVATION MODE'. ALL STAMINA REGENERATION HALTED. STRENGTH & SPEED STATS TEMPORARILY DEBUFFED BY 10%.]
Rage, cut through the fog of his exhaustion. It wasn't directed at Isolde. It was directed at this world. At this body. At this pathetic, weak vessel he was trapped in. He had S-Rank potential, and he was being defeated by a lack of calories.
He turned from the mirror, his movements stiff. He grabbed the roll of bread and the cup of water and consumed it. The bread was dense, doughy. The water was flat and metallic. It was gone in thirty seconds.
[CALORIES CONSUMED: APPROXIMATELY 200]
[INSUFFICIENT TO REVERSE STARVATION MODE.]
Raizo crushed the clay cup in his hand. The shards dug into his palm, a fresh, sharp pain.
[PAIN DETECTED: LACERATIONS (PALM)]
[GRIT CONVERSION: +1.5 GP]
"System," he growled, the word a low rumble in his chest. He was done with this. "Show me the stats. All of them. And explain how this works. How I get from this useless piece of shit to something that can actually fight."
The red text in his vision dissolved, then reformed, rearranging itself into a new, more structured format. The system's personality was cold, robotic, utterly devoid of empathy.
[QUERY RECEIVED: STAT PROGRESSION MECHANICS. INITIATING TUTORIAL.]
A new window appeared, a schematic of a progress bar that was almost entirely empty.
[FOUNDATION: ALL BEINGS IN AURIONVALE HAVE A BASE STAT POOL OF 100. GRADES ARE A MEASURE OF PROFICIENCY AGAINST THIS BASE.]
[GRADE EVOLUTION: SUB-GRADES (E-, E, E+)]
[TO INCREASE ONE SUB-GRADE (E- TO E): 100 STAT POINTS REQUIRED.]
[GRADE EVOLUTION: FULL GRADES]
[TO INCREASE ONE FULL GRADE (E TO D): 500 STAT POINTS REQUIRED.]
[TO INCREASE ONE FULL GRADE (D TO C): 2,000 STAT POINTS REQUIRED.]
[TO INCREASE ONE FULL GRADE (C TO B): 10,000 STAT POINTS REQUIRED.]
[TO INCREASE ONE FULL GRADE (B TO A): 50,000 STAT POINTS REQUIRED.]
[TO INCREASE ONE FULL GRADE (A TO S): 250,000 STAT POINTS REQUIRED.]
[CONCLUSION: THE PATH TO POWER IS EXPONENTIAL. YOUR CURRENT METHODS ARE INEFFICIENT.]
Raizo stared at the numbers. 250,000 points for S-Rank. It was so high it seemed designed to crush hope. A normal person might have despaired, or given up.
But Raizo Katsuragi was not a normal. He was the boy who had practiced on a cracked court for three years, missing thousands of shots a day just for the feeling of the ball in his hands.
"Good." he whispered, a grim smile touching his lips.
He looked at his bleeding palm. He looked at the red text. He understood now. This world played a game of stats and skills and
He needed more Grit. More pain. More conflict. And he knew exactly where to find it.
---
The walk to the trade town of Oakhaven was a two-hour. With every step, the Grit System was a relentless narrator of his body's failure.
[STAMINA -5%]
[LEG MUSCLE STRESS: CRITICAL]
[HOST LUNGS OPERATING AT 60% CAPACITY DUE TO MALNUTRITION]
But he was also learning to use it. As he passed a farmer struggling to lift a sack of grain onto a cart, the system automatically fired.
[OBSERVING TARGET: FARMER]
[STRENGTH ESTIMATE: D+]
[GRIT SYSTEM ANALYSIS: TARGET IS RELIANT ON 'CLEAN' MUSCLE DEVELOPMENT. VULNERABLE TO JOINT STRIKES. SPINAL COLUMNA IS EXPOSED DURING LIFTING MOTION.]
Raizo didn't just see the world anymore; He saw its weaknesses. He was learning to see the world not as a place, but as a game.
Oakhaven was a sprawling chaos of wooden buildings leaning against each other. The streets were packed, but Raizo moved through them like a swiftly, his hood pulled low, his gaze sweeping over everything. He saw a Magic Mirror bolted to the side of a tavern, playing a loop of a game from the capital. The players were fluid, magical, their skills activating with flashes of light.
[SKILL ANALYZED: [PHANTOM DRIVE] (A-RANK)]
[EFFECT: USER PHASES THROUGH SOLID OBJECTS FOR 0.5 SECONDS.]
[MANA COST: EXTREME]
Raizo felt nothing. No envy. No awe. It was just information to be processed and eventually overcome.
He found the flyer in an alleyway behind a butcher shop, the same one from his fragmented memories. The red ink seemed to pulse in the dim light.
THE GALLOWS
Tonight. Moonrise.
The Cellar Beneath The Rusty Anchor.
3v3. DEATH MATCH RULES.
Winner Takes All: 50 SILVER PURSE.
NO REFUNDS.
He found the Rusty Anchor tavern and descended the steep, slick stone stairs into the cellar. The air was suffocating of sweat, stale beer, and bloodlust. The ceiling was low, held up by thick wooden beams blackened with age and smoke. In the center of the room was a dirt court, packed hard and smooth, with a white lime line painted around the key. The hoop was made of iron, reinforced, with a chain net that looked sharp enough to sever a finger.
Men stood around the perimeter, their faces illuminated by the flickering torchlight. They were laborers, dockworkers, ex-mercenaries. Hard men. They held money in their fists, shouting odds, their voices a raw. A massive Holo-Board was bolted to one wall, displaying live odds and a running tally of bets.
[Holo-Board ANALYSIS: ODDS FOR 'RED DOGS' FAVORITE. CURRENT PURSE: 50 SILVER.]
[SCAN: MULTIPLE HOSTILES. EMBLEM TIERS DETECTED: COMMON (IRON), MERCENARY (STEEL), NOBLE (GOLD).]
Raizo moved to the side, staying in the shadows, his system quietly cataloging every face, every weapon, every glint of light off an Emblem. He watched the current match. It was a brutal, ugly brawl. No skills, magic, just two teams of three men trying to beat each other into submission. They used a Leather Ball, Type-B.
[WEAPON IDENTIFIED: LEATHER BALL (TYPE-B)]
[STATS: -50% RESPONSIVENESS, -30% BOUNCE, -20% GRIP IN WET CONDITIONS]
[USER PROFICIENCY: N/A]
This was his world. Not the clean, magical game of the nobles, but this. The dirt, the blood, the raw, unfiltered violence.
When the match ended, the bookie—a mountain of a man with a scarred face named Grak—bellowed, "Who's up next? Who's got the balls to face the Red Dogs?"
Silence.
Raizo took a breath. He stepped out of the shadows.
"I do."
His voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise. Every head turned. A hundred pairs of eyes, hard and suspicious, locked onto him. They saw a scrawny kid in a dirty tunic, his hood hiding his face.
Grak laughed, a sound like rocks grinding together. "Look at you, boy. You're skin and bones. You'll get snapped in half. This ain't a schoolyard game."
Raizo didn't rise to the bait. He walked to the betting table, his movements calm and deliberate. He pulled out the only thing of value he had: the silver hairbrush he'd stolen from Darius's drawer. He tossed it onto the table. It clinked, a sound of real quality in a room of cheap iron and worn leather.
"Entry fee," Raizo said.
Grak picked up the brush, his eyes widening slightly. He weighed it in his palm, a professional assessing its worth. He looked at Raizo with a little more respect, but still a healthy dose of skepticism. "You got a team, pretty boy?"
"No," Raizo said. "Give me two randoms. Any ones you want. I don't care."
A man in the crowd jeered. "He's got a death wish!"
Grak grinned, showing a gold tooth. "You heard the man! Get the Drunk and the Mute! We're calling you the Suicide Kings!"
Two men were shoved onto the court. One was massive, shirtless, his torso a map of scars. The other was small, twitchy, staring at the floor.
Raizo walked onto the dirt court. He felt the vibration of the room, the weight of a hundred stares. He bent down and picked up the Leather Ball. It felt familiar. A deadball
"Alright, Suicide King," Grak said, leaning over the table. "Before I let you get your team killed, I need to know. What's your position? What's your game?"
This was the moment. In his past life, in Tokyo, he'd been asked this before. Coaches, captains, other players. He never had the right answer. He wasn't a Point Guard or a Power Forward. He was just... Raizo.
But here, in this world, the answer was different. It had to be.
He looked at Grak, his expression unreadable. "I don't shoot," he said, his voice flat and honest. "My form is garbage."
A few snickers rippled through the crowd.
"I stand near the basket," he continued, his gaze drifting to the iron hoop. "I hit people. I take the ball. That's my game."
The snickers died. A profound silence fell over the cellar. Grak stared at him, his mouth slightly agape.
"By the Gods," Grak whispered, his voice filled with a terrifying reverence. "What's your name, killer?"
"Raizo," he said, confused by the reaction.
"Raizo," Grak repeated. He turned to the crowd, his voice booming. "You hear that? Place your bets, you dogs!"
Raizo stood there.
Grak pointed to the two men who were now his teammates. "Borin and Finn. They're yours. Don't get them killed too quickly."
Raizo turned his attention to his new team. The Grit System flared to life, providing him with the data he needed.
[TARGET 1: "THE DRUNK" - BORIN]
[CLASS: UNASSIGNED]
[DEBUFF: [PERPETUAL INTOXICATION] - REACTION TIME -50%, PAIN RESISTANCE +25%]
[LATENT SKILL: [UNPREDICTABLE DODGE] - RANDOMLY AVOIDS ATTACKS THROUGH CHAOTIC MOVEMENT.]
[TARGET 2: "THE MUTE" - FINN]
[CLASS: UNASSIGNED]
[BUFF: [SILENT FOCUS] - IGNORES CROWD TAUNTS AND MENTAL ATTACKS.]
[LATENT SKILL: [SHADOW STEP] - SHORT-RANGE TELEPORTATION WHEN UNOBSERVED.]
The opposing team, the Red Dogs, stepped onto the court. They were massive, covered in scars, and their Emblems glowed a menacing steel-gray.
Their leader, a brute with a beard braided with iron rings, sneered at Raizo's team. "This must be a joke. We're going to break you."
Raizo ignored him completely. He walked to the basket, and jumped to touched the cold iron chain net, and bounced the Leather Ball one last time.
[WEAPON: LEATHER BALL (TYPE-B) - FAMILIARITY INCREASED]
[PASSIVE SKILL UPGRADE: [PAIN SIPHON] - CONVERSION RATE INCREASED TO 55%]
He didn't look at his teammates. He didn't look at the enemy. He just stared at the hoop. His ugly form was a weakness, so his defense must be absolute. His body was weak, so his will must be the strongest thing on this court.
Grak, acting as referee, tossed the ball into the air for the tip-off. The massive center of the Red Dogs leaped into the air, a confident sneer on his face, his hand outstretched to claim the ball.
Raizo didn't even jump for the ball. He took a half-step back, his eyes locked not on the sphere of leather, but on the spot where his opponent would land.