Previously:
Transmigrator woke up in a mud room, saw a monster in the mirror, learned "kobold" wasn't a polite way of saying "goblin," and then had a door smashed in by a larger kobold with a club. The system chimed. He screamed. Life got worse.
---
The gray kobold's patience had the lifespan of a wet match. He stood by the doorway, arms folded, jaw set like a crude hammer, and grunted once.
"Change," he said, blunt enough to pass for instruction. "And stop sleeping naked. It's disgusting."
Transmigrator blinked at the flat command, at the way the gray's voice scraped across the small room, at the fact that he—transmigrator—was, in fact, naked. An awkward kind of naked: exposed, embarrassed, and new to claws.
Although he wanted to argue that he was not into sleeping naked and it was probably previous owner's fault, but he knew better than to argue.
Panic pushed him into motion. Clothes. Where were clothes? The room was a cave-sized mess of cracked pottery, a single stub of a candle, and a pit of cobwebs in the corner that might have once been a shelf. Searching every corner would look suspicious to the kobold standing outside the door. Not looking would be... worse.
He mouthed a plea at his ever-present, ever-annoying companion. System—find clothes. Now.
The air hummed with nothing. The system—glorious, helpful, infuriating—did... nothing. Silence was its current personality.
Of course.
He dove behind overturned crates, snatched at a rag-strewn heap, poked into a shallow square pit in the corner (half hidden under a wooden slab), and cursed when his fingers came away dusty but empty. The gray kobold's footfalls thudded on the other side of the door, impatient.
"Why so long?" the gray barked through.
He panicked and, in that instant, invented the worst lie possible. "Looking for my favourite one," he blurted, because of course he did not know kobold laundry protocol.
A grunt. "Hurry. I don't have all day."
He flung back the slab, dove into the pit, and found them—clothes and boots shoved in like they'd been set down in a hurry ages ago. He yanked them on with fumbling, ungainly motions, tugged his shirt down over a scaly chest, forced the boots up over clawed feet, and tried to look like he'd done this before.
He hated the way the fabric sat, hated the way his tail seemed to have a mind of its own, and hated that his whole morning now smelled faintly of smoke and iron and shame.
"Okay. Clothes on," transmigrator murmured to the system, trying to sound casual.
The system actually replied this time—dry, perfectly timed, and with the kind of sarcasm that made blood simmer.
> ┌────" SYSTEM NOTICE───────┐
│ STATUS: ONLINE — HOST SYNC.
COMPLETE
│ OBSERVATION: You are still doubting. │
│ CLARIFICATION: No—this is not a dream. │
│ REMARK: You were transmigrated into an │ unsightly body.
│
└───────────────────────── ───────────────┘
He gaped. "Unsightly?" he muttered. "And whose fault is that? I didn't ask the cosmos for a kobold upgrade."
> "Typical coping mechanism: blame the universe," the system replied.
"Haah, who am I arguing with. Never mind, just show me my status window, if I have any."
A translucent panel shimmered into being, clinical and smug.
┌──────" STATUS WINDOW "──────┐
│ NAME : Brownling (former body alias)
│ RACE : Kobold (Brown Variant)
│ STRENGTH : 9
│ AGILITY : 11
│ SKILL : 9
│ ENDURANCE : 8
│ POTENTIAL : 13
│ WILLPOWER : 17
│ LUCK : 12
└───────────────────────────────────────────────┘
SUMMARY: Congratulations. You are biologically average, emotionally dramatic, and aesthetically questionable. Potential exists—mostly in the 'can endure humiliation' department.
He snorted despite himself. "Brownling?" he said aloud. "That's the body's name?"
> "No. That's what the body used to be called—likely a nickname," the system replied. "If you prefer drama, feel free to adopt it."
He stared at the numbers. "But those stats are lower than the base you told me about. I thought kobolds had twelve to twenty across—"
> "True," the system confirmed. "Base for this species sits between 12–20. You are, uh, somewhat underperforming."
Fodder among fodder, transmigrator thought. He clenched his jaw, reminding himself that willpower was still decent, though not touching 20. At least something in him didn't scream.
The gray kobold stamped once, impatient. "You're still weird, Brownling," he observed. "But good. Good. Come."
He stepped out into the corridor and blinked at the view. A narrow tunnel opened into a rough village: hut doors ajar, smoke curling from several forges, the smell of metal and burnt meat thick in the air. Smaller kobolds darted between shadows, carrying tools and grunting. The gray kobold led him, shoulders a set of authority, tail flicking with controlled impatience.
The system jabbed at Lucas's skull again. [Tell me your real name from earth.]
Transmigrator hissed mentally, "You."
The gray kobold's ears twitched. "Hmm?"
He straightened like a man caught talking to himself. "Nothing, sir!"
The kobold's mouth made a small sound of skepticism. "You look like you need to speak less," he said, then turned and continued walking.
Transmigrator huffed inwardly to system. 'You'll pay for that.'
> "So, name or not, Brownling?" the system prodded. "Spill."
He Burned with fury 'why should I?'
> "Then don't say it BROWNLING.. ," the system said slowly, as if tasting the name. "Acceptable?"
He glared. "You don't even know my earth name? Don't system usually know such things. Seems like you didn't do homework haa?"
> "Nope," the system announced, almost proud. "I'm unique. I don't do what the mass-produced systems do. They're all 'reveal host' and pat on the back. I'm different."
'Then show me what you can do' he asked
[BEHOLD MY FUNCTIONS]
" SYSTEM CORE BRIEF — DUAL UNIT"
│ CORE A: Player Interface & Stat Management
│ CORE B: Observation Module — Profile & Analysis
│ SPECIALITY : Recipe Archive (Alchemy / Contract / Potion)│
│ WARNING: Sarcasm Engine permanently active.
└────────────────────────────────────────────────────
Transmigrator blinked. "Dual system? So you're... two systems in one, you seem pretty overpowered?"
> "In simple terms: yes," the system said with smug triumph. "I can generate complete recipe scrolls—names, processes, synergies, functions."
'There's a catch right' he asked suspicious of this too good to be true deal.
> "Hoo hoo... there's always a catch"
'And the catch is?'
"The catch,huh? I don't provide the ingredients. You find them. Also, acquiring recipes costs permanent stat points."
[ For Common: −3; Uncommon: −5; Rare: −10; Unique: −25; Legendary: −100.]
His steps slowed. "Permanent? You mean—my base stats get reduced. For knowledge?"
> "That's correct, precious living organism," the system said. "Knowledge at the price of flesh. Romantic, no?"
He rubbed his ribs with one claw like that might stop the world. The gray kobold wasn't listening; he was busy barking orders to a passing pair of workers.
Outloud, He tried to sound practical. 'If you don't know my name, how do I find out, I was thinking of using status window to learn my new name?' He was already thinking of ways that the village might find it suspicious if he couldn't answer.
> "Trade," the system said. "You tell me your real name, and I'll tell you the body's actual name. Fair transaction."
He sighed. He hated bargains that sounded too neat. "Fine. My name is—"
He said it, and the corridor seemed to listen. "Krai Yamauchi."
> "Acceptable," the system responded. "And your assigned host name—Lucas."
"STATUS WINDOW–LUCAS (UPDATED)"
│ NAME : Lucas (host identity)
│ ALIAS : Brownling (local label)
│ RACE : Kobold (Brown Variant)
│ STRENGTH : 9
│ AGILITY : 11
│ SKILL : 9
│ ENDURANCE : 8
│ POTENTIAL : 13
│ WILLPOWER : 17
│ LUCK : 12
└────────────────────────────────────────────────────
SUMMARY: Name: Lucas. Status: newly minted scapegoat. Current objective: survive long enough to be mildly useful. Try not to die, pretty please.
Lucas wanted to swat the panel away. Instead he shoved his hands into his pockets and tightened his jaw.
They walked in silence for a moment, save for the scrape of sandals and the steady clank of a distant hammer. The kobold who had knocked on the door—smaller, nervous, greenish—popped up ahead and called something out. The gray gave a short, curt nod.
"You're being odd," the gray said finally, glancing back at Lucas. "Do not make trouble. Chief is short-tempered."
Lucas inhaled. "Chief? Right. Can't wait."
> "Tip: Don't be on the chief's bad side," the system offered, helpfully. "He tends to… rearrange things. Permanently."
"Gee, thanks," Lucas muttered.
The village opened into a rough square. A hulking form by a fire caught Lucas's eye—coal-dark scales, scars like old rivers, eyes that seemed to weigh everything in sight. A dozen kobolds nearby fell a little quieter when the chief looked their way. Lucas's tail gave an involuntary twitch.
The gray nudged him. "Get ready. Don't embarrass yourself."
Lucas practiced a smile that felt like pulling teeth. He answered too quickly, "Wouldn't dream of it, sir."
> "And try not to look like you just woke from a funeral," the system added, unhelpfully.
Lucas narrowed his eyes at the sky. Between a mocking system and kobolds who thought his name a joke, Lucas had a feeling the day would only get better in theory.
He squared his shoulders. If insults were the currency of this body, Lucas would collect them and build a shield. If recipes required stat points, he'd find a way to earn them—without sacrificing everything. Surviving seemed an acceptable first goal.
>[ SYSTEM REMINDER: Objective updated: Survive Your First Morning. ]
[Reward: continued existence and slightly more sarcastic commentary on your ugly life choices.]
Lucas took one step forward, toward the firelight, toward the chief, and toward whatever small miseries the village had in store. If the system wanted to roast him a thousand times a day, fine—he'd be the toast.