The three pots of Basic Healing Salve were a secret revolution in Alaric's life. A dab on the fresh scrapes from his foraging expedition not only soothed the burning but, according to a system notation, accelerated natural healing by 15%. It was a tangible return on investment, a physical confirmation of his grinding progress. He hid two pots deep within a loose stone in his secluded corner, keeping one in his robe for emergencies.
The system points, now at 36, burned a hole in his virtual pocket. He eyed the shop. The [Minor Qi-Gathering Talisman] was still out of reach. But a new, practical item had appeared: [Simple Bindings: Reinforced cloth wraps for hands and knees. +1 VIT, +1 DEX (while worn). Cost: 20 Points.] It was an equipment upgrade. He purchased them. The wraps materialized—sturdy, dark grey cloth that felt oddly dense. He put them on, and instantly, the constant tremor in his hands lessened. His knees felt more supported. The stat boosts were temporary but transformative.
He moved through his morning dailies with a new, grim efficiency. The +1 DEX from the bindings made his sweeping less clumsy, his water-fetching trips faster. He completed [Diligence] and [Foundation] before the majority of the outer disciples had finished their morning gruel. The rewards were the same microscopic stat boosts, but they were compounding. VIT: 4.6. DEX: 3.5. The numbers were a lifeline.
He was on his way to the scriptorium for a bland fetch quest—delivering a stack of mending reports for Elder Song—when his path was cut off.
"Look who's walking a bit taller. Found a spine in the trash, Useless?"
Marcus. He was flanked by his two lackeys, blocking the narrow path between the dormitory and the storage halls. Today, a new figure stood slightly behind Marcus—an inner disciple in finer grey-trimmed-with-blue robes. Karius. He was Marcus's cousin, a talent who had recently broken into the Earth Realm, Stage 1, and whose arrogance had grown proportionally. He observed the scene with a bored, contemptuous smirk, as if watching insects squabble.
"He's even got new rags," one lackey snickered, pointing at Alaric's bindings.
"Probably stole them," Marcus said, stepping closer. "From the laundry pits. That's where trash belongs."
Alaric's mind raced. The path was narrow. Turning back would be seen as weakness and invite pursuit. Trying to push past was impossible. It was a calculated ambush. He gripped the scrolls for Elder Song tightly, his knuckles white under the bindings.
[URGENT QUEST GENERATED!]
The text flashed, not in blue or purple, but in a bold, urgent yellow.
Quest: [A Show of Defiance]
Objective: Endure ten (10) physical strikes from Karius without crying out, pleading, or losing consciousness.
Reward: Skill: [Ironhide Skin (Passive) - Lv. 1]. +10 System Points.
Failure: Severe injury. Significant loss of face. Spirit penalty.
Note: This is a test of fortitude. The System supports your growth.
The reward was massive—a permanent defensive skill. The cost was written in plain, brutal language: Endure. This wasn't a quest he could loophole. This was the system demanding he pay in the oldest currency of the weak: pain.
Before he could even consciously accept, Karius spoke, his voice a languid drawl. "Cousin says you've been forgetting your place. A sick dog that doesn't know it's sick is a nuisance." He cracked his knuckles. "Let's remind it."
Alaric said nothing. He locked eyes with Marcus, seeing the gleeful anticipation there, then looked past him to Karius. He gave a single, slow nod. Not of submission, but of acknowledgement. I see you.
The first strike was a casual backhand across the face.
Light exploded behind Alaric's eyes. The world spun. He stumbled back against the stone wall, the scrolls scattering. The taste of copper filled his mouth. HP: 53/100 -> 48/100.
The system log updated: Strikes Endured: 1/10.
In the hospital, pain had been a constant, gray fog. He had learned to dissociate from it, to partition his mind. He called upon that skill now. He let the physical sensation—the sharp sting, the throbbing heat—exist in one compartment. In another, he focused on his breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Slow. Even. He did not give the pain the dignity of his full attention.
"Quiet one," Karius mused, and drove a fist into Alaric's solar plexus.
All air left his body in a silent, agonizing whoosh. He doubled over, vision swimming with black dots. HP: 48/100 -> 42/100.2/10.
Focus on the numbers. Not the feeling. The numbers. He imagined his HP bar, visualized it as a game UI element, something separate from him. The red portion shrank, but it was just data.
The third strike was a kick to his thigh, right over the old meridian fracture. This pain was different, deeper, a lightning bolt of spiritual and physical agony that made his modified breathing technique falter. A grunt was torn from his lips, but he clenched his jaw, swallowing the cry. HP: 42 -> 38.3/10.
The lackeys cheered. Marcus's smile was wide and ugly.
Blow after blow fell. A shove that cracked his shoulder against the wall. A knee to the ribs. A sharp, open-palm strike to the ear that rang his world like a gong. Alaric's body became a map of screaming nerves. His HP plummeted: 33... 28... 24...
But his mind, the core of him that had bargained with a cosmic voice, remained in its cold, partitioned center. He counted the strikes. He analyzed the quality of each pain—blunt, piercing, shock. He even, in a detached corner of his thoughts, noted Karius' poor form, his reliance on brute strength over precision. The bindings on his hands and knees absorbed some impact, the temporary +1 VIT the only thread preventing a fracture.
8/10.
9/10.
He was on his knees now, blood dripping from his split lip onto the dusty stones. His vision was a tunnel. The final strike came: Karius, wanting to end with flair, aimed a stomping kick at Alaric's already-aching ribs.
Inhale.
The foot connected.
Exhale.
CRACK.
A rib gave way. The pain was sublime, a white-hot star of agony in his side. Alaric's body convulsed, but his throat remained locked. A choked, wet sound escaped, but not a cry. Not a plea.
Silence.
Quest Updated: [A Show of Defiance] - COMPLETED.
For a moment, there was only the sound of Alaric's ragged, whistling breath and the distant hum of the sect. Karius looked down at him, his bored smirk slightly faded, replaced by a flicker of uneasy respect. The lackeys had stopped cheering. Beating a crying wretch was fun. This silent, unwavering endurance was unnerving.
"Hmph. Tough trash is still trash," Karius said, but the bite was gone. He turned and walked away. Marcus shot a last, conflicted glare at Alaric before scurrying after his cousin.
Alaric was alone. The floodgates opened. The partitioned pain crashed over him, a tsunami of nausea and dizziness. He collapsed onto his side, curling around his injured ribs. But through the agony, the system chimed, its tone sweet and congratulatory.
[Rewards Claimed: Skill - Ironhide Skin (Passive) - Lv. 1. System Points +10. Total: 26.]
[Skill Description: Your body's resilience is permanently enhanced. Reduces damage from blunt physical attacks by 5%. Pain tolerance moderately increased.]
A warm, solid feeling seeped into his muscles and bones, distinct from the fiery pain. It was a low, constant fortification. His HP regeneration, which had been stalled, began again at a slightly faster tick: 24/100... 25/100...
Then, a second, softer chime, followed by a line of text that scrolled past almost too quickly to see, written in the same cheerful font as the rest.
[Pain Threshold Updated. Emotional Resonance: Determination. Harvesting...]
The word 'Harvesting' glitched for a nanosecond, the pixels stretching oddly before resolving.
Alaric, swimming in a sea of hurt, dismissed it. Flavor text. Atmospheric system nonsense. The important thing was the skill. The points. He had paid the price, and he had gotten the upgrade. He used 5 of his remaining points to buy a [Minor Pain Suppressant Poultice] from the shop, slapping the bitter, leafy paste directly over his ribs. The sharp edge of the fracture pain dulled to a heavy ache.
Gathering the scattered scrolls with trembling, bound hands, he pushed himself up. Every movement was torture, but the [Ironhide Skin] was already at work, making the torture just barely sustainable. He was a broken puppet, but his strings were now made of slightly stronger fiber.
He limped towards Elder Song's quarters, delivering the scrolls with a bowed head, not in submission, but to hide the fury and triumph in his eyes. He had taken their worst. He had not broken. And he had gained strength from it.
The system had called it a test of fortitude. Alaric saw it as a transaction. He had traded pain for power. It seemed a fair, if brutal, deal. The glitchy word "Harvesting" didn't even cross his mind again. It was just part of the game's ambient soundtrack. The real victory was in the new, unyielding feel of his own skin, and the cold fire of resolve that now burned, brighter than ever, in his silent heart.