Nothing serious happened.
That thought is the only thing keeping my breathing steady.
If the troll had been stronger—or if it had carried something more suited for killing—the difference would have been life and death. And even if I know, logically, that I can't truly die here… I don't believe for a moment that there isn't a price to pay.
There's always a price.
I have no desire to find out what it is.
A slow sigh escapes me, heavier than it should be for someone my age. I feel like an old man borrowing a younger body. On this journey, I can't afford to harden my heart if I want to stay loyal to my ambition—but I can't allow myself to remain naïve either.
It's a narrow path.
Easy to recognize.
Difficult to walk.
A presence moves beside me. A hand rests gently on my shoulder, announcing itself even before I turn my head. When I do, the Gray Knight is already extending his hand toward me.
I don't understand at first.
In my confusion, I place the potion into his open palm.
He freezes.
For a moment, the dungeon fills with a different kind of silence. Then he exhales—a quiet, tired sound—and closes his fingers around the vial before putting it away. Once he has done so, he reaches out again.
Oh.
Right.
I take his hand, heat creeping up my face. His grip is firm as he pulls me effortlessly to my feet, reminding me how long I'd been sitting on the cold stone floor.
Focus.
I straighten and meet his gaze. With a motion of his hand, a translucent screen appears—his status window. My eyes go straight to the experience bar.
Half-full.
"So… one more troll for your next level," I murmur.
The knight inclines his head.
I repeat the summoning process.
Light gathers. The air distorts. And the troll manifests within the cell.
It looks at me.
I look away.
The movement is instinctive—my eyes sliding aside before I can stop myself. I feel the knight shift next to me. Once again, his hand rests on my shoulder.
Not forceful.
Just present.
I turn back. He looks at me, then at the troll, then back at me. He doesn't speak, but the meaning is unmistakable.
Don't look away.
I swallow.
I suppose… I suppose I'm still a child. Always avoiding violence. I've never liked it. But if I'm the one making the decision—if I'm the one giving the order—then I can't look away from what follows.
Slowly, I nod.
The knight releases my shoulder, gives a slight nod of his own, and steps forward.
This time, I watch.
The experience bar fills smoothly.
No fanfare. No surge of power. Just a quiet confirmation as the last sliver clicks into place and the bar resets—longer than before.
The knight pauses. A faint shimmer passes over him, subtle enough that I might have missed it if I hadn't been watching closely. His status window updates. Numbers shift as he allocates his gains without hesitation.
He turns to me and waits.
That's it?
No celebration. No sense of triumph.
Just… continue.
I summon another troll.
It dies the same way as the first.
When the knight shows me the screen again, the experience bar fills only a quarter of the way.
I frown.
"That's… not good."
He tilts his head slightly, prompting me to explain.
"If the requirement doubles every level, and I can only summon one at a time…" I trail off, already seeing the problem stretch endlessly ahead of us. "We'll be here forever."
The knight remains silent.
I run a hand through my hair and begin pacing. There has to be another option. Games rarely offer only one path.
"An experience farm," I mutter. "I need something that produces enemies on its own."
The thought comes easily.
The solution does not.
This isn't Minecraft. I can't manipulate darkness to force spawns. I've never even played it—only watched others.
It's been too long since I played anything seriously.
Which means I have to work with what I remember.
Skyrim's skills pass through my mind. Summoning allies won't help—the knight gains experience from enemies, not companions. Castle Crashers…
No.
Then it clicks.
An enemy.
Similar to the troll.
Bigger. Bulkier.
One that doesn't attack—but produces.
I stop pacing and close my eyes.
"Of course," I breathe. "How did I forget you?"
The circle inside the cell forms again—larger this time. The light thickens, warping the air more violently than before. When it fades, the answer to my problem stands before me.
The troll mother.
[Image Here]
She hunches forward as soon as she notices me, her massive body shuddering. Something moves along her back—and then she expels a troll, dropping it onto the stone floor with a wet thud.
Then another.
Then another.
My stomach tightens.
"Right… let's not get carried away."
The knight resumes his work, bow already in hand. Efficient. Methodical. When one troll falls, two more take its place.
I start counting.
Sixteen.
"So that's the limit," I murmur. "Sixteen at a time."
For now, no matter how many the knight kills, the troll mother continues.
Even after doing something like this, the voice does not appear. I don't have anyone to share the weight of these decisions with.
I glance at the troll mother again. Even without attacking her directly, she produces creatures that attack me...
That counts.
Doesn't it?
As arrows continue to fly—never missing—I realize I've never actually seen the knight fight with his sword and shield. Maybe he's better with the bow.
Or maybe this is simply more efficient.
Efficiency…
"I need to work on my control," I say quietly.
He doesn't object.
I leave him there—alone with the endless stream of trolls—and retreat toward the far end of the dungeon. My feet carry me without thought until the air grows cooler.
The lake.
I sit at its edge and close my eyes.
If destruction comes from pain, then restoration should come from healing…
I search my memories.
Disinfected wounds. A hospital room. The dull ache fading as medication takes effect. Hands resting gently against my cheek while a cut is stitched closed.
Nothing answers.
No warmth. No glow. No response.
When I open my eyes, the lake reflects the night sky perfectly—stars scattered across its surface like a treasure chest cracked open.
Beautiful.
Untouched.
Indifferent.
I stare at my reflection and wonder why healing alone refuses me.
The dungeon's sounds barely reach this place. The arrows. The impacts. The wet thuds against stone—all swallowed by dripping water and the rhythm of my breathing.
I flex my fingers and hold my hand over the scars on my cheek.
"Restoration," I whisper.
Thinking about it, I never really healed myself. I always let time do the work. And when it was serious, others intervened.
I know the knowledge is there.
But the trigger...
Destruction comes easily. Cold. Fire. Lightning. All tied to moments of pain, fear, or carelessness—memories deep enough that the magic answers without hesitation.
But healing...
I let my hands fall into my lap and sit there longer than I intend to.
Eventually, the sound returns.
Not screams.
Not struggle.
Just efficiency.
The knight is still working.
If I can't use Restoration yet, then I'll focus on what I can do.
I stand and look back at the lake one last time.
Tomorrow, I'll continue. I'll optimize. I'll learn. I'll get stronger.
I have to.
Mercy is a privilege of the strong.
And only the strongest can fight for others.
As I walk back toward the dungeon's glow, one question refuses to let go of me:
If destructive magic answers pain...
What does Restoration answer?