Arthur did not spend the points immediately.
That was the first decision he made.
He sat at the small kitchen table long after dinner, elbows resting on the worn surface, hands clasped together as he stared at nothing. The apartment was quiet now. His sister had fallen asleep early, clutching her stuffed animal. His brother had exhausted himself with practice and collapsed on his bed without complaint.
His parents were in their room, voices low, discussing work schedules and supply prices.
Normal sounds.
Safe sounds.
Arthur exhaled slowly.
Only when he was certain no one was watching did he allow the translucent interface to appear again.
[Adaptive Attribute System]
[Host: Arthur]
[Martial Artist Rank: 1]
[Available Attribute Points: 100]
The number sat there, calm and unreal.
One hundred.
Arthur had trained for six years to squeeze out marginal improvements—extra stamina, slightly denser muscle fibers, better breathing efficiency. Pills suitable for Rank 1 were expensive and weak. Even if he used them consistently, gaining the equivalent of five to ten points worth of improvement over a month would be considered good progress.
And now—
One corpse.
One hundred points.
Arthur clenched his jaw.
"This isn't infinite," he muttered quietly.
"And it's not free."
The system had made one thing very clear.
He was still Rank 1.
No matter how many points he had, his body had limits. Push past them carelessly, and he would tear himself apart.
He focused.
The interface shifted.
[Attributes Available for Allocation]
•Strength
•Endurance
•Speed
•Recovery
•Technique Mastery (Rank-Limited)
Arthur's eyes lingered on the last option.
Technique Mastery.
Tempting.
Very tempting.
But he resisted.
He had learned this lesson from his father years ago—before the injury.
"A sharper blade doesn't matter if your arm can't swing it."
Arthur nodded faintly to himself.
He needed a foundation that could handle growth.
Carefully, he began.
Strength: +20
Endurance: +25
Speed: +20
Recovery: +35
The moment he confirmed, pain slammed into him.
Arthur's grip tightened on the edge of the table as his muscles seized. His bones vibrated faintly, a deep resonance spreading through his limbs. It wasn't the violent agony of absorption—but it was intense, demanding his full focus.
He regulated his breathing automatically.
Four in.
Four out.
The pain dulled.
The pressure settled.
After nearly a minute, Arthur straightened slowly.
His body felt… heavier.
Denser.
Like something hollow had been filled.
He flexed his fingers. The movement felt smoother, more efficient. When he stood, his balance adjusted instantly, feet aligning without conscious thought.
Arthur swallowed.
"This is still Rank 1," he whispered.
But it was the upper boundary of Rank 1.
He moved quietly to the living room, careful not to wake anyone. The space was small, but enough.
Arthur dropped into a stance.
Basic Strike Form.
Nothing flashy.
He punched.
The air cracked.
Arthur froze.
That sound shouldn't have happened.
He stared at his fist, then struck again—controlled, measured.
Crack.
Not explosive.
But solid.
Arthur exhaled sharply.
A Rank 1 martial artist at the lower end could bruise wood, dent thin metal if lucky. What Arthur had just felt—
He stepped closer to the reinforced practice post his brother used. Lightly reinforced alloy. Designed for Rank 1 training.
Arthur struck.
The post shuddered.
A shallow dent formed where his knuckles had hit.
Arthur stepped back immediately, heart pounding.
"That's… close to Rank 2 output."
Not equal.
But approaching.
And he hadn't even touched technique mastery yet.
Arthur leaned against the wall, forcing his breathing to slow.
"This system doesn't make me invincible," he murmured. "It just removes wasted effort."
The interface flickered faintly.
[Warning]
Current Physical Load: Near Rank 1 Upper Limit
Recommendation: Do Not Allocate Further Points Without Conditioning
Arthur nodded.
"Understood."
He dismissed the interface and returned to his room.
Sleep did not come easily.
The next morning, Arthur woke before dawn.
Not because he needed to—
But because his body was ready.
He moved through his routine in silence.
Light stretching. Controlled breathing.
Slow, deliberate movements. Each action felt cleaner, sharper, as if unnecessary resistance had been stripped away.
His father watched him from the doorway, arms crossed.
"You're moving differently," Marcus said.
Arthur paused.
"Is it bad?"
"No," his father replied slowly. "It's… efficient."
Arthur forced a casual shrug. "Probably just consistent training."
Marcus studied him for a moment longer, then nodded.
"Don't overdo it."
"I won't."
Arthur left for work shortly after.
The streets felt different today.
Not because the world had changed—
But because he had.
He noticed things more easily. Shifts in posture. Inefficiencies in movement. When a Rank 2 courier leapt across a street, Arthur could almost see where energy leaked from the landing.
He delivered packages faster than usual.
Not rushing.
Just… optimized.
By mid-day, his body began to protest.
A deep fatigue settled into his muscles—not pain, but warning.
Arthur slowed immediately.
The system's limits were clear.
Points could raise potential.
But conditioning still mattered.
That afternoon, the city buzzed with news.
Footage of the Sector 9 incident circulated on public screens.
Blurry images of Void Raiders being torn apart by city defenders. A Rank 5 martial artist crushed one with a single strike, the creature collapsing like paper.
The caption was clear.
LOW-LEVEL THREAT NEUTRALIZED.
Arthur watched quietly.
That thing…
Had been worth 100 points.
His jaw tightened.
The difference between him and Rank 3 was still massive.
But now—
The path was visible.
That evening, as he returned home, Arthur took the long route again.
Not recklessly.
Not searching.
Just aware.
He knew now what corpses meant.
What medicine meant.
What opportunity looked like.
Arthur touched his chest lightly.
One hundred points hadn't changed his world.
But they had changed him.
And under a system ruled by ranks—
That was how revolutions began.