After the warmth of the level-up faded, Carl stood in the stillness of the chamber, his breath beginning to steady. The silence pressed in around him like a heavy cloak, but he was no longer focused on his surroundings. A thought flickered through his mind, and the familiar sound of the interface hummed softly into being.
In front of him, a glowing panel materialized, hovering just above eye level. The characters were crisp, clean, and edged in the same deep crimson that marked the Aurexian Empire's color scheme. It was his status screen updated now to reflect his progress.
Carl's eyes scanned the information carefully:
Name: Carl
Health: 600 / 600
Mana: 70 / 70
Level: 1
Experience: 150/1800
Rank:Citizen
Faction: Aurexian Empire
Job: None --
Sub-Job: --
Attributes: (12)
Strength – [4]
Intelligence – [3]
Charisma – [5]
Agility – [4]
Luck – [2]
Status: Stable (No injuries)
Titles: --
He stared at the twelve unassigned attribute points, his mind already racing with possibilities. This was his chance to shape himself, to take control of his growth in this world. These weren't just numbers. They were the foundation of his survival, his power, and eventually, his dominance.
Strength would increase his physical attack power, possibly even his carrying capacity and stamina.
Intelligence could boost his mana and spellcasting potential, though he had yet to learn any spells.
Charisma might affect his interactions with NPCs, and perhaps give him an edge with Aurexian nobles and quest givers.
Agility seemed tied to speed and evasion, critical for surviving close combat.
Luck was a mystery. He didn't know how it worked, but in games, luck always seemed to influence critical hits, item drops, and other hidden mechanics.
Carl tapped a finger against his chin, deep in thought. This wasn't a decision to make lightly. Every point mattered. He had no job yet, no sub-job either—those would likely unlock later, perhaps through quests or trials. For now, he was raw potential.
He let the screen float in front of him, still considering. Around him, the dungeon remained quiet. The scent of rot still lingered, but the threat was gone for now.
Carl studied the floating interface in front of him, his eyes narrowing on the dozen attribute points awaiting distribution. His fingers hovered in the air, as though touching the glowing numbers would somehow make the decision easier. But he already knew what he needed to do.
This wasn't the time to gamble on unknown mechanics or long-term builds. He was alone, deep inside a hostile dungeon, surrounded by monsters with weapons and teeth. Theory could come later. Right now, he needed raw survival power.
Strength and Agility.
That was the answer.
Strength would increase his physical attack damage—essential for taking down enemies faster and more efficiently. Every blow would matter, especially if the creatures got tougher the deeper he went.
Agility would enhance his speed, reflexes, and likely his evasion. It could be the difference between dodging a lethal strike and taking another wound.
The rest could wait. Intelligence was meaningless without spells. Charisma would matter once he reached civilization. Luck... he would come back to that later.
Without hesitation, Carl evenly split the twelve points: six into Strength, six into Agility.
As soon as he confirmed the distribution, a subtle wave of energy pulsed through his body. He could feel it—not just in his muscles, but in the way his entire frame seemed to respond with sharper precision. His limbs felt lighter. His stance more grounded. There was a sudden clarity in his movement, like he had finally tuned into the rhythm of his own body.
The interface updated immediately.
Name: Carl
Health: 900 / 900
Mana: 70 / 70
Level: 1
Experience: 150/1800
Rank:Citizen
Faction: Aurexian Empire
Job: None --
Sub-Job: --
Attributes: (--)
Strength – [10]
Intelligence – [3]
Charisma – [5]
Agility – [10]
Luck – [2]
Status: Stable (No injuries)
Titles: --
Carl gave a firm nod and dismissed the interface with a thought. His body felt stronger. Quicker. More capable. Whatever came next in this dungeon, he would meet it head-on—with speed and steel.
He turned his attention back down the corridor, where darkness still waited.
Carl pressed forward, deeper into the gloom of the dungeon.
The narrow corridors twisted and forked in maddening ways, as though the very architecture was designed to confuse intruders. Stone walls lined with decay and overgrown with patches of glowing moss gave off a faint light, just enough to see a few paces ahead. The air was damp and heavy, laced with the stink of mildew, rusted metal, and the faint coppery trace of blood.
Every few steps, Carl slowed to listen—really listen. The scrape of something dragging. The low hiss of something breathing. The dungeon was far from silent. It was alive.
He encountered more monsters.
First, a pair of Carrion Rats, bloated and covered in patchy fur, their eyes glowing with dull hatred. They were fast but uncoordinated, and Carl dispatched them quickly, dodging low and slashing upward in a precise arc that left them twitching on the floor.
Further in, a lone Ghoul Wretch lunged at him from behind a crumbled pillar, its claws scraping the stone as it missed by inches. Carl responded with a spinning sidestep, burying his dagger into the creature's spine before it could turn. It shrieked once and fell, twitching in the flickering torchlight.
The fights were coming more frequently now.
A trio of Burrow Imps ambushed him in a collapsed hall, emerging from cracks in the wall with snarling grins and rusted bone knives. One of them scored a shallow cut across Carl's cheek, but he kept his focus. He moved like water fluid, sharp, relentless. His enhanced agility allowed him to flow between blows, while his strength turned every counterattack into a lethal strike.
Each battle left behind more than blood and bodies. Carl gained more experience, more precision, and more certainty. The dungeon wasn't random. It was a gauntlet. A trial by design.
After an hour of relentless exploration, Carl's pace had become deliberate, measured. Every turn, every shadow, every breath was calculated.
He was now level 4.
The countless encounters with lesser monsters had sharpened his instincts, and his experience had rewarded him with growth. His health and mana pools had expanded. His movements were faster, his strikes heavier, more confident. His body felt lighter, stronger, as if the system itself had begun molding him into something more.
His rusted dagger was gone — discarded without a second thought. In its place was a Rusted Sword, slightly chipped but better balanced, scavenged from the corpse he had come across half-buried beneath collapsed rubble.
The dungeon's layout had begun to shift subtly. The stonework looked older now, deeper in design, with more elaborate carvings faded with age. Old banners hung in tatters, and broken statuary suggested this place had once served a greater purpose. But none of that stopped Carl.
He moved like a shadow through the maze of corridors, occasionally stopping to rest, loot, or treat minor wounds before pushing forward.
Then, without warning, he heard it.
Footsteps.
Not the dragging, staggered ones of the undead. Not the scrapes of claws or the thud of hooves. These were measured, alert, and deliberate.
A Human.
Carl immediately slipped behind a cracked section of the dungeon wall, pressing his back to the stone. He steadied his breathing and peeked around the corner, careful not to make a sound.
Down the corridor ahead, a figure was moving slowly cautious, just like him. The light from a nearby brazier caught on steel armor and a faint shimmer of a UI interface hovering faintly above their head.
A player.
Another person.
His grip on the sword tightened as he remained crouched in the shadows, watching.
Carl stayed perfectly still, hidden behind the broken edge of the stone wall. His breath slowed, his grip tightened around the hilt of his rusted sword — no longer just a scavenged weapon, but a lifeline sharpened through blood and grit.
Down the corridor, the scene unfolded like something dredged up from a sick, corrupted corner of human nature. Three male players stood over the fallen body of a female player. Her health bar, flickering and low, vanished in a final, flat pulse as one of the men drove a short blade into her back with mechanical indifference.
She didn't scream. She barely moved. Her body crumpled to the cold floor, disintegrating into red mist as the death animation took her.
They didn't even flinch.
One of them laughed as he crouched down, reaching into the mist to pull gear from her inventory. The others circled, plundering what they could. Coins. Equipment. Potions. The kill wasn't about survival. It was about power, cruelty, and taking what they could simply because they could.
Carl's jaw clenched.
All three players bore visible level indicators above their heads — Level 2. Weaker than him now. But not harmless. They had killed without hesitation. They would do it again. And there was no one here to stop them.
Except him.
He didn't need a reason beyond that.
Carl moved from cover without a sound, the rusted sword held low. The first player, bent over the looted corpse, had no time to react. Carl lunged and drove his sword deep into the man's side, cutting through leather and flesh with practiced force. The player staggered back, gurgling on his own blood as he collapsed.
+320 EXP
The soft glow of system text floated and vanished, unnoticed.
Carl turned as the second player shouted in alarm and raised his blade. Their weapons clashed once. Carl pivoted, stepped in, and slammed his elbow into the man's face. While the stunned player reeled, Carl drove the sword up into his ribs and yanked it free in a single, brutal motion.
+320 EXP
The last player panicked.
He stumbled back, pulling a potion from his belt, fumbling with the interface to drink it. Carl didn't give him the chance. He advanced without hesitation, swept the blade low to knock the man's footing, then rammed it forward into his chest as he fell.
+320 EXP
Then... stillness.
He breathed heavily, looking down at the scattered gear left behind. His arm ached from the swing. A bruise pulsed along his ribs where one of the dead men had landed a lucky kick. But it was over.
Carl gave the corridor one last look, then crouched to recover what was usable.
These weren't the first players who had turned on their own and they wouldn't be the last.
Carl looked coldly at the spot where the female player had fallen, the stone floor still stained by the last echo of her presence. The place where her body had vanished was quiet now, lit only by the dying flicker of a nearby torch. The scattered remains of her items had already vanished, claimed by the looters or reclaimed by the system.
He stood there for a moment longer, the rusted blade in his hand still wet with the remnants of their death. Then, as if answering a question he hadn't voiced aloud, a thought surfaced. Cold. Clear. Without apology.
I will not say sorry.
I'm no hero. I never wanted to be.
This is a game, and I know the rules. She'll respawn somewhere, maybe already has. Maybe she'll tell other people what happened. Maybe she'll forget. It doesn't matter.
I didn't kill them for you. I killed them for me.
Because I didn't want to carry the weight of looking away.
Because I needed to remind myself what kind of person I am in this world. Not a good person nor a righteous one. Just someone making choices he won't regret later on.
He exhaled slowly and turned his back on the place. The heat of combat was fading from his blood, replaced now by a heavy stillness. The kind that came after violence. The kind that came before more.
Carl didn't linger. He had no intention of mourning. He wasn't here to fix the darkness in this place, or in people. He wasn't here to protect anyone. All he could do was survive—and if moments like this made that survival quieter, cleaner, then so be it.
He walked away, the soft crunch of his boots echoing through the dungeon corridor. Behind him, the quiet claimed the chamber again.
There were no heroes here.
Only players.