Ding!
[Welcome to the Gamer 5.4.5 System! Congratulations! You have died, and your personal memories have been erased. You are now being given a unique opportunity to be reborn in a new world and body.]
Ding!
[The body for rebirth will be chosen randomly.]
[Please choose your rebirth option: Rebirth as an infant or inhabitation of an adult body.]
The system didn't wait for my input.
[The option "inhabitation of an adult body" has been selected.]
[Confirm your choice?]
Yes
Ding!
[You have chosen to inhabit an adult body. A new body will be created and integrated into this world's history, complete with its own biography and background.]
Ding!
[You will not occupy or replace another's body. This new body is entirely yours, from the moment your soul inhabits it. Your conscience is clear.]
Ding!
[Please choose your pain sensitivity level: 0-100%.]
The prompt seemed simple enough.
Ding!
[The pain sensitivity affects your body's sensations, excluding vision and hearing.]
Ding!
[A sensitivity level below 70% imposes a penalty on experience gain and character growth rate.]
Without hesitation, I made an odd choice.
Ding!
[The option "110%" has been selected. Warning: Levels above 100% can be dangerous for your mental health.]
[Your choice is confirmed.]
Ding!
[With 110% pain sensitivity, experience gain and character growth rate are increased by 25%. Enjoy your rebirth!]
I blinked a few times, the surreal messages still floating in my mind. With a deep breath, I glanced into the mirror above the sink. The reflection staring back at me was a shock.
A man stood there. His face had a certain resemblance to the comedic actor Jack Black, but this version was much younger... and significantly heavier. I sighed, lifting my ample belly with both hands, scrutinizing it with a mix of disbelief and resignation.
"Seriously?"
At twenty-one years old, standing just 170 centimeters tall, I weighed over 100 kilograms. It didn't help that I owned a building in one of New York's less desirable neighborhoods, inherited from an uncle who, along with my parents, died in a tragic accident. Alone, living off the rental income, I had plenty of time to reflect on my situation.
But now? This wasn't just my life; it was the one granted by the Gamer system.
I finished washing my face and turned to leave the bathroom. That's when it happened. My foot slipped on the tile, sending me careening forward. My forehead collided with the door frame, hard enough that stars erupted in my vision. Pain radiated from the impact, leaving me breathless and dizzy. Then:
Ding!
[You have taken five points of damage.]
I froze. The message shocked me so much that I forgot the pain. The message floated, semi-transparent in the lower left corner of my vision, its significance slowly sinking in.
Looking closer, I noticed more. In the upper left corner, bars of different colors had appeared, and above them, a small round picture of myself was outlined in red. Above that, my name appeared: [Thomas Blank. Level 5.]
"Status!" I thought, still sitting on the cold tiled floor.
Immediately, information filled my vision:
[Name: Thomas Blank]
[Race: Human]
[Character Class: Jolly Fat Man]
[Level: 5 (500/1000 XP)]
[Health: 495/500 (Recovery rate: 0.5 per minute)]
[Explosive Energy: 300/300 (Recovery rate: 30 per minute)]
[Potential Energy: 3000/3000 (Recovery rate: 3 per minute)]
[Strength: 5]
[Agility: 4]
[Endurance: 3]
[Vitality: 5]
[Intelligence: 5]
[Wisdom: 1]
[Attribute Points: 25]
Traits: Player's Body, Player's Mind
Skills: Poison Resistance: 5, Pain Level: 110%, +25% to experience gain and attribute growth rate.
"Huh... not much to work with," I muttered, standing slowly. My head throbbed, but I was far more intrigued by the display floating before me. I focused on "Human" and issued a mental command.
"Info!"
[Human: The dominant race on the planet, possessing no racial bonuses, penalties, or restrictions.]
Next, I focused on "Character Class: Jolly Fat Man" and repeated the command.
"Info!"
[Jolly Fat Man: A character class characterized by physical heaviness and a large appetite. Unique features include accelerated health and energy recovery through food consumption, and resistance to poisons.]
Well, that explained the weight. This wasn't just a random trait—it was built into my character class. Great. I was stuck as the heavy guy. Maybe I could change classes? I mentally poked around for more info, but nothing else came up.
I sighed again, feeling both the weight of my newfound existence and the potential ahead. Thomas Blank, an orphaned twenty-one-year-old landlord in New York, but now also... a Player.
No parents, no family, just a backstory integrated into this reality. It was sad but somewhat comforting. After all, I wasn't a complete stranger here, not a monster who had taken over someone else's life.
I looked at my reflection again, a smile creeping across my face. "Alright, Player. Time to level up."
I must have looked ridiculous—pathetic, even—if anyone had been around to see me. Just picture it: a fat guy in the middle of a room, struggling to do push-ups on a polished hardwood floor. My arms shook, my whole body wobbled, and my belly kept grazing the ground with each failed attempt.
But there was no one else here. No one to laugh. And I certainly wasn't laughing myself.
Three.
I managed a grand total of three push-ups.
Three.
That was all I had before my energy ran dry. My entire 300-unit "explosive" energy bar had been depleted. Even my "potential" energy had dipped slightly, and without energy, movement became impossible. As I lay there, panting and sweating, my chest heaving, my heart raced in my ears like a runaway train. I was completely drained.
This was going to be a lot harder than I thought.
For the next ten minutes, I stayed on the floor, waiting for my "explosive" energy to slowly refill. I could feel it trickling back into me, bit by bit. Once I'd recovered enough, I pushed myself through fifteen squats before hitting the wall again—drained, breathless, and light-headed.
Another ten minutes passed in recovery before I tackled my next goal: sit-ups. I barely managed two reps, and that was with the couch helping to anchor my feet. Without it, this would've been impossible. But still, it was progress, albeit pathetic. Not great, but at least it was something.
After enduring another ten minutes of discomfort, I staggered to my feet and headed for the closet. I needed something to wear if I was going to keep this up. Luckily, I found a tracksuit that fit—snug, but manageable. Among my shoes, I spotted a pair of pristine running sneakers. They were brand new, obviously never used for their intended purpose, and the thick soles were just what I needed to protect my knees from the strain of running on pavement.
Running... Now that was going to be a nightmare.
This body—a cursed blend of weakness and fat—could barely handle running. I managed to jog for about four hundred meters before my "explosive" energy gave out again. I was forced to stop and wait another ten minutes for the bar to recharge.
After that, I switched up my routine: air squats, sit-ups, and a relentless string of short runs. I kept pushing myself—running, stopping, running, stopping—trying to break through my limits. But even as I ran, a new warning flashed before my eyes.
Ding!
[You have taken 1 point of damage.]
And then another.
[You have taken 1 point of damage.]
Over and over, these messages appeared, piling up as I continued running. The damage numbers kept climbing.
[You have taken 2 points of damage.]
[You have taken 3 points of damage.]
By the time my health bar had dropped below two hundred, I was losing five points of health per hit. And when I finally collapsed onto the ground, I could barely stay conscious. My health had plummeted to a terrifying 50 out of 500.
I hit the ground hard. The sudden stop brought even more pain.
Ding!
[You have taken 20 points of damage.]
Of course. I'd stopped too suddenly. My body couldn't handle the abrupt halt after so much exertion. I hadn't even done a proper cooldown, and now I was paying for it.
Ding!
[You have taken 10 points of damage.]
[You have been afflicted with the negative effect "Stroke" – health regeneration is reduced threefold.]
I gritted my teeth, clawing at the ground, barely able to move. I felt like I was dying—or worse, like I was trapped in a body that would never recover. Even the Player's Mind trait couldn't dull the pain completely.
But I forced myself to move. Slowly, painfully, I crawled toward a nearby park bench. Inch by agonizing inch, I made it. When I finally pulled myself onto the bench, I slumped against it, gasping for air.
Ding!
[Will attribute unlocked.]
[Will +1.]
More damage notifications appeared, but so did something new. My Will attribute was increasing. With every ounce of pain I endured, my willpower grew stronger.
Ding!
[Will +1.]
[Will +1.]
I sprawled across the bench, feeling absolutely wrecked. My health bar was now flashing a sickly red: 5 out of 500. My breathing was still erratic, and I felt like my heart was going to burst out of my chest.
Ding!
[Will +1.]
I stared at the health bar, waiting for the inevitable death message. I had to be close to passing out for good. But nothing happened. Seconds passed, and then minutes. My health didn't drop to zero, despite everything. And then, slowly—agonizingly slowly—my health bar ticked up.
2 out of 500.
It wasn't much, but it was something. A lifeline.
The "Stroke" effect lingered for two excruciating hours. Every second was torture, but my health kept inching upward, eventually reaching 22 out of 500.
Two hours and thirty-six minutes after I'd collapsed, my health was finally high enough to stand. I forced myself up from the bench, every movement slow and deliberate. I shuffled my way home, step by step, fighting through the fatigue.
Ding!
[Will +1.]
It took me nearly an hour to make the walk back to my apartment. My Will attribute continued to grow, little by little, as I forced my body to keep moving. By the time I reached my building, I'd gained another four points in Will, and the stairs to my fourth-floor apartment earned me two more.
But the journey had drained me. My "potential" energy bar had dropped by two-thirds, and every muscle in my body screamed for relief. Finally, I reached my bed and collapsed onto it, praying for the sweet escape of sleep.
Ding!
[You have been afflicted with the negative effect "Hunger." Your health and energy recovery speed reduced by five times.]
That wasn't exactly the cheerful "good morning" I was hoping for. Instead, it was a cold reminder of my reality. I rubbed my eyes, blinking as the familiar message screen floated in front of me.
Health: 450/800.
I sighed. Clearly, I had missed something crucial while I slept. A glance at the "message log" confirmed it.
Ding!
[You have been granted the beneficial effect of "Sleep." Health and energy recovery rates doubled.]
Well, that was at least something positive. I appreciated that the notifications hadn't rudely awakened me, allowing me to sleep peacefully. But the irony of being rewarded with "sleep" after finally resting wasn't lost on me.
Still, I scrolled further down.
Ding!
[Achievement Unlocked: "Iron Balls"]
[Achievement Unlocked: "Extremist"]
[Stamina +3]
[Endurance +3]
[Skill Acquired: Running]
Not bad at all. Stamina and endurance were always welcome. But those achievement names… What had I done to earn those?
I pulled up my stats.
Name: Thomas Blank
Race: Human
Class: Jolly Fat Man
Level: 5 (500/1000)
Health: 451/800 (recovery 0.8 per minute)
Explosive Energy: 300/300 (recovery 30 per minute)
Potential Energy: 3000/3000 (recovery 6 per minute)
Strength: 5
Agility: 4
Endurance: 6
Vitality: 8
Intelligence: 5
Wisdom: 1
Will: 12
Attribute Points: 25
Traits: Player Body, Player Mind.
Skills:
Poison Resistance: 5Run: 1
Achievements:
Iron BallsExtremist
Pain Level: 110%
+25% to experience gain and stat growth speed
Debuff:
Hunger: Slows down health and energy recovery by 5x.
Not bad, but not great either. The Hunger debuff was killing me. Literally.
I tapped on the achievements to get more details.
[Iron Balls]: +1% chance of accomplishing the impossible.
Note: You brought yourself to within one hit point of death with twenty-five unspent attribute points. It takes real iron balls… and the same amount of brains.
Next Level: Steel Balls – +1% chance of accomplishing the unthinkable.
I groaned and hit my head against my pillow a few times in frustration. How had I forgotten to allocate points while I was practically dying in front of that bench? I had the points! Just a couple into vitality, and I could've prevented that whole mess.
But no. I'd pushed my body to its absolute limit. Brilliant, Thomas. Just brilliant.
The next achievement wasn't much better.
[Extremist]: +10% to the growth rate of attributes in life-threatening situations.
Next Level: Suicidal – +25% to growth rate in life-or-death scenarios.
Great. I earned bonuses for putting myself in mortal danger. How very reassuring.
With a deep sigh, I pushed myself out of bed. I was still in my running shoes and sports clothes. What was I thinking? Wearing shoes indoors? Unacceptable. I quickly kicked them off.
Determined to turn my day around, I grabbed a bucket and rag and started scrubbing the floors of my apartment. It was a decent place, a three-room unit with a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Not bad at all. After washing the floors, I took a long shower, dressed in comfortable clothes, and dove into deep cleaning. Dishes were washed, laundry was started, and the apartment began to look more like a home.
While I was organizing things, I noticed the shower faucet was leaking. My uncle, rest his soul, had shown me where he kept the tools. Time to fix this.
I headed down to the building's basement, where we stored spare parts and tools. Along the way, I discovered that the building had a perfectly functional elevator, but out of sheer stubbornness, I ignored it and took the stairs. I was trying to burn calories, after all.
Once back, I repaired the faucet and returned to the mound of paperwork that had piled up. Bills, taxes, water usage, heating—all of it loomed over me. Homeownership wasn't easy.
[Intelligence +1]
Well, at least my brain was getting sharper with all the problem-solving. Then, of course, came the next message.
Ding!
[The negative effect "Hunger" has evolved into "Wild Hunger": Health and energy regeneration halted.]
Of course. Just what I needed. Wild Hunger. My stomach growled viciously, and the desire to eat anything grew overwhelming. I imagined myself stuffing my face with burgers, fries, and every junk food known to man. But no! I was on a diet. I couldn't let that fat belly win.
Instead, I refocused on the paperwork. It was tedious and mind-numbing, but necessary. Taxes, water bills, repairs—I couldn't afford to mess this up.
[Intelligence +1]
Small victories, I suppose. I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache coming on, when the doorbell rang.
I opened the door, and there stood Sharon, a pretty blonde around my age. She frowned, arms crossed, clearly annoyed.
"Hello, Mr. Blank," she started, her voice edged with irritation. "Still no hot water. This is the third time this week!"
I froze for a second, trying to recall her name. She must've noticed my hesitation.
"Sharon," she prompted, rolling her eyes. "Second floor. Please tell me you haven't forgotten."
"Right! Second floor," I nodded, trying to play it cool. "Lead the way, Sharon."
Without another word, I grabbed the plumbing toolbox I had conveniently left in the hallway. Sharon glanced at me, clearly surprised but not questioning it. She simply turned towards the elevator.
Time to play handyman.
Thomas Blank stood in Sharon's one-bedroom apartment, feeling a sense of calm as he took in the cozy surroundings. It was a clean, well-kept space with bright white lace curtains and flower pots set on delicate doilies, creating an inviting atmosphere. Even the bathroom, with its shelves lined with neatly arranged bottles and jars, reflected Sharon's attention to order.
There was just one issue—no hot water.
When Thomas turned on the faucet, the pipe rattled, and a thin stream of rusty, lukewarm water trickled out. Apologizing quickly, he headed to the basement, half-expecting the worst—a broken boiler in the communal area. Fixing it would cost thousands and take a week, not to mention the challenge of finding skilled workers.
Luckily, the boiler was fine. The problem was local to Sharon's apartment. After checking the pipes, Thomas discovered the culprit—a clogged pipe leading to Sharon's shower and kitchen, which was causing the water pressure problems and shaking pipes.
He returned to Sharon with the diagnosis.
"The pipe's almost completely blocked," Thomas explained. "It needs to be replaced."
Sharon frowned. "How long will it take?"
"A few hours," he replied. "I have all the tools I need."
Sharon looked uncertain, clearly not expecting such an interruption. She had probably just returned from a long day at work and, from the smell of sweat and dust, maybe some intense training, too.
"But how can… I…"
"You can use the shower in my apartment for now. There's no one there at the moment, and I'll be busy here for a while and won't disturb you."
"Th… thank you, Mr. Blank."
Sharon replied, stumbling slightly.
"I'll be quick."
"No problem, Sharon."
I made an "OK" sign with my fingers, grinning stupidly and scratching the back of my head.
'Ah! Cute girls are my weakness.'
Whether in this life or the previous one… But with my current figure and appearance, all I can do is scratch my head and not expect anything.
Sharon hurried off to use his shower while he got to work. It took him about twenty minutes to gather the necessary tools, and by the time Sharon returned, freshly showered, he was already well into the repair.
With the water drained and the old pipes removed, Thomas patched the plaster where needed, painted the new pipes, and cleaned up. It took him just over two hours, a bit longer than expected, but the job was thorough.
"Ding!" The faucet roared back to life as Sharon tested it, hot water flowing freely.
"Wow, you have golden hands, Mr. Blank!" Sharon exclaimed, smiling widely. "I didn't know you knew about plumbing!"
Thomas chuckled. "It's not rocket science."
"Ding!" A notification popped up in his mind: [Skill Acquired: Handy Man]—Agility +1.
Sharon wasn't finished. "Do you know anything about electricity?"
"Depends," he said, intrigued. "What seems to be the problem?"
"My room's outlet stopped working," Sharon admitted, lowering her eyes and shuffling her feet.
Thomas followed her into the bedroom, where he found a melted outlet with burn marks around it. Next to it was a foam fire extinguisher with a broken seal.
"How did this happen?" he asked, baffled.
Sharon handed him an extension cord with eight sockets, the thick wire at the end melted.
"What was plugged into this?" Thomas asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Two heaters, an iron, and a vacuum cleaner," she said, blushing slightly.
He shook his head in disbelief. "How didn't the circuit breaker trip?"
"Circuit breaker?" Sharon looked confused.
Thomas sighed, heading for the breaker box. When he opened it, he was stunned. The breaker lever had been rigged in the "on" position with a paperclip and spring, preventing it from tripping.
He didn't say a word, just went to fetch new wiring and an outlet. Two hours later, the repair was complete. "Don't ever do that again," Thomas warned, pointing at the newly freed circuit breaker. "It's there to protect you from electrical fires, Sharon."
Sharon nodded, looking guilty. "I didn't know."
"Also, that foam extinguisher? Get rid of it and buy a powder one. Using that on live wires is dangerous. You could've gotten yourself killed."
She paled at the thought. "I won't do it again, I promise."
"Good," Thomas said, still shaking his head. "Well, I'll be on my way."
"Wait!" Sharon called out. "I made a meat pie. Would you like to stay and have some?"
At the mention of food, Thomas's stomach growled audibly. "Meat pie… with cheese and garlic?" he asked, the temptation almost overwhelming.
Sharon nodded enthusiastically.
For a moment, Thomas nearly gave in, but then he remembered his new diet. Slapping himself hard across the cheek to shake off the desire, he forced a smile. "Sorry, Sharon. I'm on a diet."
Sharon looked disappointed but understanding. "Diet, huh?" she echoed, glancing at his stomach.
"Yeah…" Thomas sighed, trying to ignore the mouth-watering aroma wafting from the kitchen. "I should get going."
[You received 1 damage.]
[Will +3]
"What about the pie?" Sharon asked. "I can't eat it all by myself."
Thomas thought for a moment. "There's a student who lives across the hall. I'm sure Peter would appreciate it."
Sharon smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Blank."
"Anytime," he replied, heading for the door, his stomach protesting with every step as the smell of the pie lingered in the air.
Once back in his own apartment, Thomas gazed gloomily at his sad meal of cabbage and green onions. It was only the first day of his diet, but he already felt like strangling someone. And as much as he tried, the pie still haunted him.
"Ding!" Another notification rang in his mind: [Wild Hunger has evolved into Gluttonous. Decreases Health and Energy by -1 per minute.]
Great. This was going to be harder than he thought.
-------------
Morning light filtered through the curtains as I slowly stirred awake. Groggy, I swung my legs out of bed and, out of habit, fell straight into a push-up position. Big mistake. My form was all wrong, and before I knew it, I had collapsed to the floor, nearly breaking my arm in the process. The system chimed in, tallying up eight damage points for my reckless behavior.
The pain in my throat was sharp, preventing me from even cursing properly. I just lay there for a few moments, recovering and catching my breath. When I finally felt like myself again, I knocked out six push-ups, thirty squats, and four crunches—nothing too crazy. I threw on my running clothes and hit the streets for a jog.
This time, I didn't push too hard. I took it slow, running in intervals until my energy gauge hit zero, resting, and then running again. After an hour and a half, I'd covered five kilometers. My "Running" skill leveled up, and I even gained a point in stamina. Not a bad start to the day.
The shower after the run felt heavenly, washing away the sweat and exhaustion. Then came breakfast—cabbage, cucumbers, some greens, a bit of cheese, and kefir. It wasn't glamorous, but it was part of my current plan.
Afterward, I tackled the endless pile of paperwork. It was tedious but essential. I started to get a better sense of my living situation, and my mind buzzed with ideas on how to optimize my household management. The concept of an "energy-efficient house" really intrigued me, but I'd need to run some calculations, research materials, and hit up a few shops. Luckily, I had a car and the appropriate license to start working on those plans.
[Intelligence +1]
The rest of the day was spent familiarizing myself with the house. It wasn't thrilling, but it was necessary. The papers could only tell me so much; I needed firsthand knowledge. Still, I found a strange sense of satisfaction in it all.
"Ding!" [Skill Acquired: Observation]
Suddenly, everything I focused on lit up with labels—an unexpected but useful ability. The house itself was a four-story building with two entrances, a basement, a cellar, and a technical floor beneath the roof. It housed twenty-two flats, though two were currently vacant. The basement was home to a boxing gym, complete with showers, locker rooms, and storage for sports equipment.
Speaking of boxing, I had signed up. I handed over ten percent of my rent and was granted a pass to train whenever I wanted. Solo sessions, just three times a week for an hour each time. All I needed was a health certificate, which they explained how to get without much trouble.
Later in the evening, I went for another run. No new skill bonuses this time, but you can't win every day, right?
During my inspection of the house, I came across what could only be described as a pseudo-dungeon. A small hatch led down to where the main water pipes ran in shallow trenches. It wasn't exactly a place you could explore, but according to my "Observation" skill, it was labeled as a "dungeon entrance." I wasn't in any rush to check it out, though.
Before bed, I cooked up a decent meal—meat with a side of potatoes and salad, along with beef soup. As I finished preparing everything, I felt a sudden wave of guilt. Sharon, my neighbor, had brought me a pie the day before, and I hadn't even thanked her properly.
I grabbed my phone and dialed her number.
"Yes?" came her surprised voice.
"Sharon, it's Thomas. Thomas Blank," I said awkwardly.
"Good evening, Mr. Blank," she replied, her voice warming.
"I, uh… I wanted to apologize," I said, feeling the weight of my words. "I gave up."
"On what?" she asked, confused.
"My diet. I couldn't stick to it, and now I have a stove full of food. I'd like to share it with you, as a sort of compensation for the pie you made yesterday. The aroma still haunts me."
"Are you inviting me to dinner, Mr. Blank?" she asked, clearly surprised.
"More like I want to share a piece of happiness," I responded, smiling to myself. "Happiness isn't meant to be kept to oneself, Sharon. It grows when shared."
"Well, it is dinner," she pointed out, still a bit hesitant.
"If you're not interested, I could always invite Peter," I teased. "Eating alone is like drinking with a mirror."
"You've convinced me, Mr. Blank," she said with a laugh. "I'll be over in about fifteen minutes, just need to dry my hair."
"Great, I'll be waiting. But not more than fifteen minutes—I might start without you!" I joked.
"Hang in there. You need to train your willpower!" she shot back, and the line went dead.
Those were the longest fifteen minutes of my life.
[Will +1] [Will +1]
I spent the time cleaning the kitchen, the hallway, and even one of my rooms. When Sharon knocked on the door, I was ready. She wore a light, airy dress, with her hair tied back in a ponytail. She looked both casual and elegant at the same time.
"Come on in, Sharon," I called from the kitchen. "Leave your shoes by the door. The floor's clean."
"As you say, Mr. Blank," she responded, stepping inside.
"I'm a bit of a neat freak," I admitted as I set the table. "Shoes don't belong indoors."
"Hmm, I know a country that would agree with you."
"Japan," I said, smiling.
"You know about that?" she asked, surprised.
"Yeah, I like their culture… and their food," I replied, placing the final dish on the table.
We sat down and ate, the conversation flowing easily. After dinner, we sipped tea and enjoyed some small pastries. It was a nice, calm evening. Eventually, Sharon left to take care of her business, and I returned to mine.
The next day began just like the last: exercises, a run, a shower, and a bland but healthy breakfast. Then, I hopped in my car and drove to get that medical certificate. With that done, I hit up the hardware stores, browsing materials.
During the process, I gained an extra point in "Observation."
The simple names of objects and people were increased by a "life" bar.
After acquiring this new ability, I began manually picking up every piece of material, glove, and equipment.
I meticulously compared their life bars that nearly drove the store staff to insanity.
However, I had no intention of stopping. After all, it was their job to serve the customer.
Later, I found myself in the boxing gym, standing face to face with a muscular giant. He towered over me, dressed in red boxing shorts and gloves. I was in oversized blue gear, trying not to look too terrified.
He was almost a pro—quick jabs, agile footwork, a clear veteran of the ring. Me? I didn't even know how to throw a proper punch.
The crowd cheered him on, while the rest of the fighters lounged against the walls, recovering from their matches. I sighed heavily as the system chimed in:
"Ding!" [You receive 5 damage] [You receive 4 damage] [You receive 5 damage]…
And the fight was just getting started.
What's the most suspicious thing about this "System"? Regeneration.
I mean, what else is the "Player's Body" but another name for the infamous healing factor?
I was mulling this over while staring at my reflection in the shower room's mirror, still recovering from my first "boxing session." A warm surge of satisfaction crept over me as I recalled landing a solid punch on the big guy—caught him completely off guard. Not only did I land it, but I knocked him off his feet!
Sadly, I didn't have time to savor the victory. He shot back up, and my world went dark after three sharp blows to the head. The rest of the fight was a one-sided massacre.
Now my face? Yeah, it looked like a Picasso painting, all bruised up and swollen.
On my way back to my apartment, I bumped into Sharon in the hallway. She was just getting home from work, fumbling with her keys at the door. The moment she saw me, her eyes widened.
"It's not what it looks like, Sharon. Boxing. First session. I know I look... well, rough. Good evening."
"Oh..." she said, clearly unsure how to respond.
"The coach already treated the bruises. All good."
"If you say so." She smiled lightly. "Good evening, Mr. Blank."
"Yesterday we agreed it's just Thomas," I reminded her with a half-hearted grin.
"Right!" she replied, smacking her forehead playfully. "Goodnight, Thomas."
"Goodnight, Sharon," I waved weakly.
She smiled and vanished behind her door, and I continued my trek up the stairs, resisting the urge to take the elevator. Gotta level up those stats somehow, right?
The next morning began with my usual routine: push-ups, squats, crunches, and a light breakfast. But then... I couldn't leave the apartment.
I lost my keys!
I was sure I'd locked the door last night. I distinctly remember using the key, but now it was nowhere to be found. I tore the place apart—nothing. Not in the corners, not under the couch, nowhere.
After what felt like hours of searching, I slumped down on the couch, forcing myself to calm down.
"Ding!"
[Wisdom +1]
Three hours later, the apartment was spotless, but the keys were still missing. I sighed and picked up the cordless phone, planning to call a locksmith. As I absentmindedly twirled something around my finger, I froze.
It was the keyring.
I stared at it in disbelief. How?! Where had they come from?
I put the phone down, puzzled. Something was definitely off here.
"Ding!"
[The "Intuition" trait has been unlocked]
Alright, seriously. Where did these keys vanish to, and how did they just magically reappear?
"Storage! Pocket! Inventory!" I commanded, expecting something to happen.
And boy, was I in for a surprise. A classic inventory menu popped up—straight out of a video game, with item slots and a character model.
How did I not check this sooner? The inventory is like the most basic feature of the System!
"Ding!"
[Intelligence +1]
The System was clearly mocking me now, but I didn't mind. Points are points, even if they come with a bit of sarcasm.
[The "Libido" trait has been unlocked]
[Libido +1]
Wait, what?
For a solid five minutes, I just stared blankly, trying to make sense of it. After collecting myself, I mentally addressed the System as if talking aloud.
"Dear System, I acknowledge my oversight and will refrain from disrespect in the future. Lesson learned."
Something told me this thing could mess with me if it really wanted to...
[Intuition +1]
Well, at least the System gave me a heads-up. Back to the inventory.
[Inventory: A special space for storing a limited number of items. Limitations: living creatures cannot be placed inside. Maximum weight: Strength attribute x 10 kilograms. Energy consumption doubles when inventory is fully loaded.]
Straightforward enough, though I had questions. Questions I could answer through experimentation. But that could wait. Right now, I had a run to get to.
After finishing my morning routine, I began renovating the stairwells in the building. Materials were ready, tools at hand—it wasn't complicated work, just tedious. Scraping old paint, peeling off plaster, prepping floors for tile...
By the time my evening run rolled around, I'd only completed one stairwell, and it still wasn't finished. On the upside, my "Handyman" skill leveled up a couple of times.
After my workout, which included the now-traditional run, I was spent. My health bar dropped to a dangerous low of 300 points. Somehow, I managed to crawl back to my apartment, heading straight for the fridge.
I craved meat, but I ended up munching on greens, trying to stave off the "Gluttonous" debuff. I just wanted to eat normally, but that wasn't happening anytime soon. The bruises wouldn't heal fully for a couple more sessions, so it was yogurt for dinner, then straight to bed.
The next morning, my workout finally rewarded me with a point in Strength.
That same day, I finished the prep work on both stairwells and started laying ceramic granite. Carrying the tiles and materials up to the required floors was a workout in itself.
By the time evening came, the run didn't feel as agonizing. With nine points in Endurance, I could feel the difference. There was progress, slow but steady. I had become a familiar face to the building's residents, and they greeted me warmly. Some even stopped for a chat, which was pretty unusual for an introvert like me.
After the third training session at the boxing gym, the System pinged again.
"Ding!"
[Endurance +1]
[Endurance reached 10 points: Libido +1]
"..."
Great. Libido was increasing whether the System wanted to joke about it or not. Two points were bad enough, causing a constant gnawing hunger and... other frustrations. Now at three? I'd have to double down on my training, work harder, sleep less—anything to distract myself from these, uh, urges.
[Willpower +1]
Well, at least there was a silver lining. Now, I'd just train until I was too tired to think.
Chapter: Into the Underworld
I stepped out of the police station, feeling more than a little frustrated. It wasn't just the denial of my gun purchase license that got to me. Sure, I didn't really need it, but the desire was there, simmering just beneath the surface. What troubled me far more were the lingering memories of this body's "childhood."
Lost in thought, I didn't notice I was standing by my car with the keys in hand until a man started to talk to me. I struggled to recall what this "Shady Guy"—the name that popped up over his head when I activated my "Observation" skill—had said.
After piecing together the fragments of our conversation, I realized I had responded without even thinking about it. The exchange went something like this:
"Hey, man, hold on. Got a smoke?"
"I don't smoke."
"You went to get a permit, huh?"
"Yeah."
"They turned you down, right?"
"Yeah."
"And you want a gun, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Alright, man, come back here around eight." He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and scribbled something on it with a pencil before handing it to me. "Just… you know, you get it, right? Well, you know what I mean! See ya, bro!"
He slapped me on the shoulder and walked away. I stared at my fist, clenching the crumpled paper, trying to process what had just happened. Had I really just been offered a chance to buy a gun from the black market right across from the police station in broad daylight?
What was I supposed to do now? Run to the cops? No way. I was in this damn America. What would be the point?
With no training that evening, Sharon hadn't returned yet, and I had no other plans. So, why not check it out? I could get a firsthand look at the criminal underworld of New York.
Nightfall
I parked my car in front of the building whose address the Shady Guy had scribbled for me. It looked like an ordinary building, nothing out of the ordinary. The neighborhood wasn't exactly pristine, but it wasn't too bad either.
Suddenly, a shadow detached itself from the wall in the nearest dark alley and moved toward me. As the figure approached, I realized it was the same guy. He opened the passenger door and hopped in confidently.
"Let's go," he said, flashing a pleased smile and waving his hand forward. I didn't argue, pressing the gas pedal to drive.
The Shady Guy navigated me around the city, weaving through industrial areas, waterfront districts, and warehouses for about forty minutes. I didn't even try to memorize the route. Why bother? My smartphone, with geolocation enabled, would mark the spot once we arrived.
Finally, Shady Guy gestured for me to stop. "We're here."
The warehouse looked no different from the many others we had passed that day, with the same loading cranes in view. We parked next to one of the containers. He fiddled with the locks, opened the door, and flipped on the lights powered by a large automotive battery.
Inside, I found three boxes, each containing ten pieces of weaponry, along with a few boxes of ammunition. It was clear the Shady Guy wasn't in the wholesale business; he was likely trafficking weapons from military warehouses or a private military company. I wasn't particularly interested in digging deeper.
Standing amidst the dangerous toys, I stared blankly at the assortment. I didn't even reach for anything, determined not to leave my fingerprints on the weapons.
"So, what do you think, bro? Do you like it? Pick what you want! I won't bargain on the price; we'll keep it friendly. We have a pump shotgun, M4, pistol, and plenty of ammo. So, what do you say, bro? You buying?"
I nodded silently and tossed the large sports bag I had hastily grabbed from the car off my shoulder. It wasn't empty. Inside were a gas-powered "parrot," a couple of hammers, a pry bar, a pipe fitting, pliers, and other assorted tools. I had brought the bag just for appearances, planning to keep anything as conspicuous as a firearm in my inventory, where no one could find it.
Thanks to my "Strength" attribute, I could carry up to one hundred kilograms. With fifteen endurance points, I wouldn't even notice an extra twenty or thirty kilograms, even if I carried it around all day.
So, I filled the bag with a shotgun—probably a Fabarm SDASS Pro Telescopic—an M16A4, a Beretta M9 pistol, spare magazines and clips for both the rifle and the pistol, along with a mountain of ammunition. The total came to ten thousand dollars, exactly the amount I had on hand. I handed it over in a single lump sum of hundreds.
"Nice doing business with you, bro!" Shady Guy said cheerfully, rustling the banknotes. "Let me help you figure out how to get out of here. You can drop me off at the stop too." He locked up his "cave," and I nodded, already marking the location on my phone to take a few detours for his peace of mind.
Suddenly, the wail of police sirens pierced the night air as they blocked me from where I had dropped off the Shady Guy. Four police cars surrounded me, each with its own crew.
"Quickly, get out of the car! Hands where I can see them! I said hands where I can see them!"
I barely had time to comprehend what was happening. I opened the door and started to exit when I was jolted by a shock. I twisted, jerked, and collapsed like a sack of potatoes, my head banging against the door.
As soon as the pain eased a little, I tried to get up, but zap! This time, they hit me in multiple spots, sending me crashing to the ground.
I noticed the notifications from the System flash in my mind:
Ding!
[You received 100 damage from electricity]
[You received 50 damage]
[You received 200 damage from electricity]
[You have received the negative effect "Paralysis"]
[The negative effect "Paralysis" has been ignored due to a high Willpower attribute]
[You received 30 damage]
What the hell? They were zapping me with a taser!
It turned out my Willpower was pretty impressive. At this rate, I'd be able to ignore any negative effects in the future!
[You received 300 damage from electricity]
[You received the negative effect "Paralysis"]
[The negative effect "Paralysis" has been ignored]
[You received the negative effect "Pain Shock"]
[The negative effect "Pain Shock" has been ignored]
I wanted to jump up and smash every one of those bastards hitting me with their tasers.
[You received the effect "Fury": Endurance, Strength, and Agility increased threefold]
[You received the skill "Electricity Resistance"]
[Electricity Resistance +1]
[Vitality +1]
I made a mistake—leaning on my hands—when they shot me with a taser again.
[You received 50 damage from electricity]
[You received 50 damage from electricity]
[You received 50 damage from electricity]
[Electricity Resistance +1]
[Effect "Paralysis" ignored]
[Effect "Berserk Fury" received: Endurance, Strength, and Agility increased sixfold]
With these stats, I could rip those sorry cops apart with my bare hands! They wouldn't stand a chance if I pulled a gun from my inventory, but I had to endure.
[Willpower +1]
[Willpower +1]
[Willpower +1]
I held on, pretending to be unconscious. I didn't rush at them, allowing them to load my "unconscious" self, handcuffed, into the car. I continued the ruse until they tossed me into a cell, carelessly dumping me onto a metal bunk.
Once they left, I summoned my "Status."
[Name: Thomas Blank]
[Race: Human]
[Character Class: Jolly Fat Man]
[Level: 5 (980/1000)]
[Health: 270/1200 (regeneration 1.2 per minute)]
[Explosive Energy: 1500/1500 (regeneration 150 per minute)]
[Potential Energy: 15000/15000 (regeneration 15 per minute)]
[Strength: 10]
[Agility: 10]
[Endurance: 15]
[Stamina: 12]
[Intelligence: 7]
[Wisdom: 2]
[Willpower: 26]
[Intuition: 3]
[Libido: 3]
[Attribute Points: 25]
[Traits: Player's Body, Player's Mind]
[Skills:]
[Electricity Resistance: 2]
[Poison Resistance: 5]
[Sprint: 2]
[Handy Man: 4]
[Observation: 2]
[Achievements:]
[Iron Balls]
[Extreme]
Pain Level 110%
+25% to experience gain and characteristic growth.
Debuff: "Wild Hunger": The health and energy regeneration stopped.
Well, the numbers weren't bad. At least that was something to be happy about. All I needed was to kill a cop to get my first victory.
-------------
"I don't remember," I muttered for what felt like the umpteenth time, staring blankly at the interrogation table, where the chain of my handcuffs was threaded through an iron ring. My fingers idly traced the links of the chain, one by one, as if trying to ground myself. "So, once again," the detective sitting across from me began, his patience visibly waning. "You came to the licensing department of the police. Why?"
"I wanted to buy a gun," I replied in the same even tone.
"Why?"
"I saw it on TV. Then I ran. I saw a store sign, went in, and wanted to buy it. They told me to go to the police. They gave me an address and showed me how to get a form. I went. They sent me to many other places. I went. They asked a lot of questions—I answered. They gave me forms—I filled them out. They told me to pay—I paid…"
"In the end, they refused to issue you a license?" he asked.
"Yes." They said I couldn't have a gun—because I was autistic, because I was 'stupid,' because I would shoot someone. I got upset. I left…
"So, you left the police department. What happened next?" Detective Knight sighed.
"Some guy came up to me. He gave me a piece of paper with an address. Told me to be there at eight and to bring money."
"Why?"
"He didn't say."
"What happened next?"
"I ran. Then I ate. Then I slept a little. Then I did push-ups, squats, pull-ups, and crunches. Then I ran. Then I went to the toilet. Then I took a shower. Then I went to the bank and withdrew money."
"How much money?"
"Ten thousand. That's how much I had free from planned expenses for house repairs, paying city utilities, taxes, and my 'emergency fund'—just like my uncle taught me."
"What happened next?" the detective asked, his frustration growing. He already knew their department was in deep trouble but was still trying to find at least a loophole, a shadow of an 'Exit' sign from the mess they had created. But instead, he was sinking deeper, interrogating me without a lawyer present and ignoring the fact that my rights had not been read during my arrest. They had not been, since I had been "unconscious." This condition was documented by the doctor on duty, and Detective Knight had not corrected this omission. I would have a lawyer soon. This was a must. After all, I had called that notary who introduced me to inheritance rights. I knew his phone number by heart.
Autistics generally have a very tenacious memory. Taking into account the presence of the System, which had a wonderful function: "Journal," discovered while I was working with documents. In this "journal," there was an opportunity to make notes. I entered my uncle's entire phone book, my smartphone's contacts, and all the details of my accounts—license numbers, passport info, property registration, my birth certificate, my parents' death certificates, social security number, and so much more useful information. Now, I planned to transfer the entire New York telephone directory into the journal. The notary's name was Cyrus Sanderman. He wasn't a lawyer, but he promised to find a good one, and I trusted him.
"Then I went to the address the man gave me."
"Do you remember the address?"
"Of course." I repeated the words and numbers from the piece of paper.
"What happened next?"
"I arrived. The man got into my car. He told me to go straight ahead."
"Did he threaten you?"
"No. He just told me where to go."
"What happened next?"
"Then we arrived at a warehouse. We entered a container. There were weapons inside. The man told me to give him the money. I got scared and gave it to him. Then I ran out and got in the car. But he jumped in next to me and told me to drive straight ahead… Then he told me to stop. I stopped. He got out. I went home. And then the police stopped me and beat me painfully."
"The police beat you?" Knight frowned.
"Who else? It was just me and them. It hurt. My forehead is cut. I was bleeding. I have black spots on my body. They're strange. I have holes in my clothes. I feel dirty. I feel sick. Why? Because the police beat me…"
"Your mother!" Detective Knight exploded, angrily throwing his pen on the table. He stood up and began pacing the room. Just then, the door of the interrogation room opened, and a young man in a suit, wearing dark glasses and holding a cane, entered. I stared at him, my jaw dropping in shock. This couldn't be happening, but there he stood—blind, in a suit, with a cane. There was still a faint hope that he would introduce himself differently, and the name would be different…
"Hello, Detective Knight. My name is Matt Murdock. I'm Mr. Blank's lawyer," he stated, confirming my fears. No miracle had occurred. He introduced himself with the name I had dreaded. This was Marvel!
How could this be happening? Just when I started to get used to it, began to feel the world solidify beneath my feet, bam! A grenade explodes! The world shattered like the colored glass of a kaleidoscope, only to suddenly reassemble into a completely different picture. This was Marvel! And Peter Parker from apartment 17 was Spider-Man! And Sharon Carter from 18 was a SHIELD agent, the niece of Peggy Carter, its founder! Mother of all that is holy!
And with Matt—especially! He's a freaking lie detector! He'll definitely know I'm guilty! Damn… This was a situation where the best was the enemy of the good! It should have been simple. Any competent lawyer could handle this. But no! The best one showed up! The best lawyer in all of Marvel! Principled and incorruptible to the point of insanity. So what should I do now? I really wanted to bang my head on the table, but I couldn't. I couldn't. Otherwise, they'd blame my injuries on self-harm. I'm autistic, according to the certificate. It would be plausible. I slowly lowered my head onto my handcuffed hands and quietly groaned.
"What's wrong with you, Mr. Blank?" Murdock asked, tensing up. Knight did too. All he expected from me now was trouble—and not without reason.
"I want to eat," I replied quietly. "I want to wash up and lie down in my soft bed… I don't even have to watch cartoons before bed…"
"Please sign the papers that you trust me to represent your interests before the authorities and in court, Mr. Blank. Then I can start working," Murdock said, taking several sheets of paper and a pen from the leather folder he held in his free hand. He placed them in front of me. I raised my head and quickly glanced at the document. It looked like a standard contract for legal services, except the fee wasn't specified.
"How much will your services cost? It's not written here," I asked cautiously, keeping my composure.
"Write the amount yourself, Mr. Blank. You have a better idea of your current financial situation," the sly bastard. What a manipulative move! He was applying pressure to my conscience and conscientiousness—classic "how much will you give, boss?"
I sighed heavily and wrote down half of my "Emergency Stabilization Fund" right away. Then I sighed again and signed my name. Murdock took the contract and turned to the detective.
"On what grounds was my client detained?"
"There was a call from an informant that Mr. Blank was transporting illegally purchased weapons in his car. Detective Michaels made the arrest based on this information."
"Was the weapon found?"
"No," Knight gritted out, almost between clenched teeth.
"Were charges brought?"
"No."
"Did the detainee plead guilty?"
"No."
"Was the arrest carried out according to protocol? Was Mr. Blank informed of his rights?"
"I was unconscious," I interjected timidly.
"So that's a 'no,'" Murdock noted, satisfied.
Knight remained silent. "So you have no right to keep my client here. We're leaving. Please release him from the handcuffs. By the way, on what grounds were they placed on him? Did he resist?"
"No. I behaved well. I listened to everyone. I didn't hit anyone. I didn't run down the corridors," I added plaintively.
"Go," Knight finally relented, almost grinding his teeth, pulling out the key and unlocking the cuffs.
"Thank you, Detective Knight," I said gratefully. "You're good. And your partner, Michaels, is bad! Here!"
Murdock smiled weakly at my remark while Knight looked away.
"You're pretending to be autistic, aren't you?" Murdock asked, sitting in the passenger seat of the car next to me. We had already been to an independent medical examination, where they documented all my injuries and overall health: 240/100—serious. The certificate they provided was a joy to read. It indicated that I was alive by a miracle, conscious, coherent, and able to act with sufficient confidence... The doctors were eager to hospitalize me right then and there, but I had refused, signing all the papers.
And now we were driving to my home. "Not exactly," I answered in a calm voice after contemplating for a moment. "The diagnosis is real. It's just that I'm a little better adapted to social life than they want to believe. Autistic individuals are all different. It's not cancer, after all."
"Well, yes, it's a unique mental state. It's little understood by others."
"That's right," I nodded, keeping my eyes on the road. "A month ago, things were really dire. I looked more like a robot than a person..."
"And what changed?"
"All three people close to me died at once—my parents and my uncle. There was no one left to care for me. I sat in my apartment for a week, but thanks to Mister Sanderman, there was enough food in the refrigerator. Then it dawned on me: I either get up and socialize or... well, no one would take care of me like my parents and uncle did. Finding a guardian is tough. It's hard to find a good person who won't be tempted by money over time."
"Money?"
"I own a two-entrance, four-story house with twenty-four apartments. One of them is mine—twenty-three in total. The rent for a one-bedroom apartment is a thousand a month. So that totals no less than twenty thousand a month. Naturally, the costs of taxes and maintenance cut that amount in half. But these aren't just one-bedroom apartments in my building. So do the math."
"So that's how it is," Murdoch contemplated. "Matt," I decided it was time for a serious conversation. I wouldn't say that this decision was easy. "Can we call each other that? Just Matt and just Tom?"
"No problem, Tom," Murdoch agreed without hesitation.
"Matt... let's be honest."
"Let's do it," he replied with a slight frown. Murdoch, despite his "heroic" alter ego, couldn't escape the weakness that all blind people have—hyper-expressive facial expressions. They can't see other people's faces, so they don't control their own very well. Murdoch expressed this to a lesser extent, but it was still there.
"I'm guilty, Matt."
"On all counts, except resisting arrest," I said, as if diving into cold water. "I actually bought a gun without a license—an automatic one, with a magazine capacity of more than ten rounds."
"Really?" Murdoch's frown deepened. "Start from the beginning."
"It was a setup from the very start, and I, a fool, fell for it," I muttered. "I tried to get a license officially. I went through all the necessary procedures, paid all the required fees, and wasted a lot of time. In the end, they refused me, citing an old diagnosis, even though I had passed the medical evaluation again, where I was recognized as fully capable." Murdoch nodded, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, taking mental notes.
"So I leave the office, all upset, and a shady guy approaches me, saying something like, 'Want a gun? Come by in the evening...' and rubs his fingers together."
"And you went?" Murdoch asked, a knowing look on his face.
"I went. And I bought."
"What did you buy?"
"An M-1, a pump-action shotgun, an army Beretta, and a bunch of bullets."
"And then?"
"They picked me up exactly a block away from where I dropped off the seller. This means they were waiting for me there. The seller wasn't a cop; otherwise, they would have picked me up right when the deal was made. So it turns out someone from the anti-weapons department was running his own small business. The dealer catches the unsuspecting fool right outside the 'permit' office, sells him 'black' guns, and then hands him over to his accomplice—a cop who catches the sucker red-handed during transportation. Then they have options: either jail time or a 'payoff' scheme. The scheme is as simple as two plus two."
"If you understood all this, then why did you go?" Murdoch chuckled.
"Hindsight is everything," I sighed. "Two questions: first—where's the weapon?"
"Let's say I 'disappeared' it. No one will ever find it. It will never surface anywhere. I have this... let's say, 'ability'... but I'll give you the numbers. Check them out; maybe they've popped up somewhere before."
"Hence the second question: why do you need a weapon?"
"That's a tough question, Matt," I sighed. "Let's head to my place and have lunch. I'm really hungry. Not just hungry—starving. Besides, we've already arrived."
Murdoch nodded. We left the car and walked up the stairs in silence. We also silently entered the apartment, where I took off my shoes and asked Matt to do the same. He chuckled but didn't object. Apparently, he accepted that everyone has their own quirks regarding everyday life. He sleeps in a "water coffin," and I take off my shoes.
In the kitchen, I pulled out the vegetables and greens, washed them, and began chopping them vigorously on a cutting board for a salad.
"You said you were hungry, right?"
"I am."
"But why a salad, then?"
"Diet," I replied, growling as I poured all my emotions—everything boiling up inside me—into that single word. Murdoch pretended to understand. But he didn't grasp a thing! It's impossible to understand; you can only feel it...
"So you didn't answer why you need a gun, Tom?" he changed the subject.
I placed a frying pan on the stove, poured in some oil, took out some meat from the fridge, cut it, tossed it in the pan, and started peeling onions and potatoes. "You see, Matt... there's one place... a very dangerous place that I need to reach... and a gun can... theoretically... increase my chances of survival there... and I want to live. So I have to take risks..."
"It's more dangerous than going to an unknown place at night with an unknown criminal and ten dollars in your pocket?" Murdoch grinned.
"Significantly," I smiled. "And about this shady guy... I'm not a complete fool, even if I am autistic. If I had sensed even the shadow of a threat, I wouldn't have gotten out of the car. I would've hit the gas and bolted. There was only one dealer; he seemed calm... and I didn't move more than a step away from him. A boxer's punch is a fast thing. At point-blank range, it would be even quicker than a knife."
"A boxer?" Murdoch was surprised and intrigued.
"I train in the boxing gym right here, downstairs in the basement. The trainer says my punch is pretty good. And considering my weight..."
"And will your 'ability' to 'disappear' things protect you from the police?" Murdoch chuckled.
"So you've calculated everything, right?"
"Of course not," I replied calmly. "It's impossible to calculate everything. I just roughly estimated the options, weighed the risks... and found them acceptable. But I miscalculated. Who knew those mangy dogs would start hitting me with tasers without even trying to talk first? I thought: well, they'll stop me, ask me to step out of the car, check my documents, search me, inspect the car—naturally, they won't find anything and let me go... yeah. I'm a naive kid from Chukotka... I almost kicked the bucket there...
"Do you really have to go to that 'place' of yours?" Matt asked after some thought.
"No. Absolutely not," I answered, pouring the chopped potatoes from the cutting board into the frying pan with the nearly cooked meat, which was filling the kitchen with a maddening aroma.
"Do you have to go there?"
"No," I replied just as easily.
"Will something terrible happen if you don't go there?"
"Also no," I smiled, swallowing the saliva that was starting to form.
"Then why? Just don't go there, and that's it," Murdoch shrugged.
"Imagine this, Matt. Just picture it for a moment: there's a door in your basement that leads to a dangerous but undoubtedly 'magical' place. A door that only you can see. That only you can open. And it's not going anywhere. You can leave it closed for a year, two, ten... you can forget about it... try to forget. But can you?"
"And it's really in your basement?" Murdoch focused on the main point.
I nodded, stirring the potatoes. "And no one but you can see it?"
I nodded again.
"And they won't open it?"
"Exactly."
"And it's dangerous there?"
"Very."
"How do you know about it if you haven't opened it?"
"I just know," I replied, covering the frying pan with the lid and turning to the lawyer. "It looks like madness, doesn't it? Like an obsession with a delusional idea. Forgive me, I don't know the correct term: paranoia or schizophrenia... It really does look that way, doesn't it?"
"More than that," he nodded.
"But the weapon disappeared, right?" I chuckled. "You could have just thrown it away somewhere, made an anonymous call, or dumped it into the river. They'll be looking for it, even if they don't know who or what it is, and they'll find nothing."
Murdoch laughed. "And what if I get caught?"
"The same thing will happen," I shrugged.
"And it's really an easy way to keep that door closed, isn't it?" Murdoch concluded.
"Perhaps," I replied, stifling a grin. "But I'd prefer not to go into it. I don't want to plunge into that darkness."
"Then how will it end?" Murdoch asked.
"Let's say it ends with a casual cup of tea," I replied, making a show of checking the potatoes' readiness. "Well, not tea, but coffee... I haven't brewed any yet."
"Don't you have anything else?" Murdoch exclaimed, rubbing his hands.
"Just coffee," I grinned, taking two cups from the shelf. "But it's excellent. It's roasted and ground right here, at home."
"So, you're some sort of a connoisseur?"
"More like a perfectionist," I replied, pouring hot water over the ground coffee. "And I'll give you a piece of advice: don't ask me for anything else. I don't have anything else."
"Perfect!" he laughed, clapping his hands.
After a few minutes of silence, we finished lunch, and I prepared a second cup of coffee for both of us. The kitchen filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and fried meat.
"Did I mention that it smells amazing here?" Murdoch smiled as we took our seats at the table.
"Thanks," I replied, pouring the coffee. "So... what about your cases?"
Murdoch took a sip and leaned back in his chair, and I began to feel a weight lift off my shoulders.
"Now that we're done with my troubles, it's your turn to tell me what's happening in your life. I have no idea what's going on."
"Nothing too special," he shrugged. "My life is pretty boring lately."
"Okay," I nodded, and we sat quietly for a moment.
"I've been working on a case," he began hesitantly, avoiding my gaze. "But that's not very interesting."
"Matt... you can talk to me," I encouraged, wanting to ease the tension.
"I just don't want to burden you with my problems," he replied sincerely.
"Trust me, I've seen worse things," I reassured him.
"Okay, but it's not pretty," he chuckled, relaxing a little. "I'm just dealing with some family issues, some potential complications..."
"Your family?"
"Yeah... It's not easy, especially with the firm I work for. Sometimes it feels like I'm torn between two worlds."
"What do you mean?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"Just... family obligations and my work. They don't always align, you know?"
"I can relate," I replied thoughtfully. "I've had my share of family issues too."
"So... it's not just me," Murdoch smiled, his expression easing a bit more.
"No, definitely not just you," I chuckled, relieved to find common ground.
The conversation continued, and I found myself unexpectedly enjoying Murdoch's company. It was refreshing to connect with someone who seemed to understand the complexities of life in a way that resonated with me.
Murdoch left an hour later, clutching a completed lawsuit against the New York City Police Department. He wasn't particularly thrilled about the upcoming case, but he understood that if there was no lawsuit, I would bear the brunt of the consequences. His professional reputation was on the line. Despite my guilt in the situation, the police had crossed a line with me, and such misconduct couldn't go unpunished. Impunity breeds corruption.
I handed him a slip of paper with coordinates from Google Maps and three numbers: the registration for the Emka, the number for the pump-action shotgun, and the serial for the Beretta. It would have been wise to include a bullet to run through the police's ballistic database, but discharging firearms in my own home wasn't the best plan.
I wasn't in a rush to return to the station, but this time, I would have a lawyer. Murdoch... I hoped I wouldn't receive a courtesy visit from Daredevil tonight, regarding the "illegal" firearms I had stashed. Matt didn't seem too pleased with my story; it was evident in his expression. If only I could catch some sleep, grab a meal, and restore my shaky health... But that was wishful thinking. I couldn't recover too quickly.
Initially, I kept my vow: I transferred the entire New York City Phone Directory into the "Journal." But two hours and two units of Willpower later, I found it unbearable and had to leave the apartment for a run. It was impossible to stay cooped up with a refrigerator so close! I also realized why it had taken me so long to recognize the world around me as Marvel. I didn't own a TV! My apartment had an old laptop and a multifunction printer. While I had a high-quality audio system and four shelves packed with CDs featuring jazz, blues, and classical music—thanks to my uncle, a music aficionado and staunch opponent of the "idiot box"—I felt its absence keenly.
To hell with TV, honestly. Speaking of music, why was I just running? I could buy a player and some wireless sports headphones. Plus, I could upgrade my laptop to connect to a high-speed internet connection in the future. For now, my funds were tight after splurging on weapons and Murdoch's fees. I even had to dip into my "stabilization fund." So, for now, I settled for a player with headphones, jotting down the rest of my ideas in the "Journal" for later.
Choosing the player took longer than expected. I ran from store to store, slowly and painfully, sometimes even losing health units along the way. In the end, I concluded I didn't need a separate player since I took my smartphone with me when I ran. An extra device would be redundant. The bonus? My smartphone had internet access, allowing me to search for and download songs whenever they popped into my head, instead of waiting until I got home.
I decided on Oscorp headphones. Stark may be a genius, but he hadn't quite mastered this market. Oscorp might be smaller than Stark Industries, but their consumer electronics were of superior quality at a lower price point. I chose a model that featured small, silver "plugs" with securing elements that looped behind the ears, connected by a flexible wire. The flat top cover of the earcups would be convenient for wearing under a hat. Lightweight, boasting excellent sound quality, moisture-resistant, and capable of lasting up to forty-eight hours on a single charge—perfect!
Running became significantly more enjoyable. I made my way to a nearby bench with public Wi-Fi and got stuck there for quite a while. Surprisingly, despite the differences in our worlds and histories, torrents were available here too, along with "Zaitsev.net," which had an Android application featuring a free music selection. After downloading it, I set it to "Rock" mode, transforming my runs into a pleasure.
I ran for a considerable time, and the System acknowledged my effort, boosting my endurance. The "Hunger" level shifted back to "Wild," and it was only then that I headed home. After a light snack of salad and a quick wash, I headed to Sullivan's gym for training. One look at my face was enough for him to usher me out with a firm order to stay away until I recovered and stopped looking like I was on death's doorstep!
I felt a twinge of offense. After all, this was MY gym! I reminded him that our agreement allowed me to train whenever I wanted, day or night. Sullivan, frustrated, spat and forced me to sign a waiver stating, "If you die here, it won't be my fault, you reckless fool!" He hit the nail on the head, that bastard. That was the end of our conversation, and the lesson began. By the end, my health indicator had plummeted to a hundred.
I took a shower and left the gym as the last of the members trickled out. Thomas, the last member, locked the doors before heading home. As for me, I went to a 24-hour supermarket, bought about fifteen kilograms of dry-cured sausage, three five-liter bottles of water, and a box of Snickers. With all the bags in hand, I returned to the gym, unlocking the door with my key.
I connected my smartphone to the large common speakers and prepared for a grueling session. Why was I putting myself through this? The answer was simple: the "Extreme" achievement. This would boost my speed in gaining characteristics when faced with a life-threatening situation. But could a health point of one hundred out of one thousand two hundred really be considered a threat? The system provided clarity by displaying an activity icon indicating the achievement's effect next to my name.
An hour later, my health dropped to fifty points, and I could practically be a poster child for Snickers with the tagline: "Don't slow down, have a Snickers!" I grabbed a quick snack and kept pushing myself. In fact, I ate while exercising. High-calorie, delicious food quickly eliminated all debuffs, and both my health and endurance began regenerating at full capacity. As I increased my "dosage," the class buff activated, accelerating my recovery speed fivefold. I even gained a point of vitality. It was clear: "Hit the makiwara, kid!"
What can I say? It was a productive night. Complex, exhausting, and at times painful... My health plummeted to just five points on multiple occasions (I incurred "Stroke" four or five times, and experienced "Cardiac Arrest" twice, which thankfully went ignored due to my high Willpower). I found myself rhythmically pounding my chest with my fist, attempting to manually restart my defiant heart, as my health plummeted at an alarming rate, and the System repeated, "Attention! Attempt to forcibly restart the heart: failure..." It was an extremely unsettling experience—especially with my heightened pain sensitivity at 110%.
Once, I fell off the rope and landed hard on the floor, suffering a "torn spleen." The fear was palpable. My health diminished almost faster than during the "Cardiac Arrest," dropping for nearly ten minutes. But I was lying there, eating. I devoured food like a man possessed, choking slightly but refusing to stop, restoring my dwindling health with the class buff. This was frightening—helplessly lying on the floor, munching away, wondering what would run out first: the achievement effect or my dwindling food supply. The effect ended just two Snickers later.
Warning! The "Extreme" achievement has reached the following level: "Suicidal."
In the end, I emerged stronger from that night: four points in Vitality, five in Strength, three in Dexterity, one in Will, and four in Endurance…
Attention! Stamina has reached twenty points: Libido +1.
This new addition, though somewhat ambiguous, made me grit my teeth tighter and hit the bar again and again. Squeezing out my last ounce of strength, I burned through my "explosive" energy with pull-ups, striving to reach my "potential." By morning, my health gauge was nearly back to its previous mark of two hundred and forty. I was habitually burdened by "Hunger," constantly threatening to spiral into "Wild Hunger."
In this state, I climbed to my room, took a shower, and prepared a morning salad. Afterward, I donned my headphones and headed out for a run, leisurely jogging along the streets slightly dampened by the morning dew, reveling in my stats.
Character Stats:
Name: Thomas Blank
Player Class: Cheerful Fat Man
Level: 5 (980/1000)
Health: 240/1600 (1.6 recovery per minute)
"Explosive" Energy: 1150/2000 (200 recovery per minute)
"Potential" Energy: 8041/20000 (20 recovery per minute)
Strength: 15
Dexterity: 13
Endurance: 20
Vitality: 16
Intelligence: 7
Wisdom: 2
Will: 30
Intuition: 3
Libido: 4
Unallocated Attribute Points: 25
Features: Player's Body, Player's Mind
Skills: Electricity Resistance - 2, Poison Resistance - 5, Running - 3, Handy Man - 4, Observation - 2
Achievements: "Iron Balls," "Suicidal"
Pain Level: 110% +25% to the speed of gaining experience and growth of characteristics.
Debuff: "Hunger": slower recovery of Life and Energy scales x5.