Capítulo 3: Welcome
[Name: @̶̨̥̈́̎̇̆̅̔̓̀̀#̵͖̫̯̦̦̯̜̃̍̂͛̎̓͝͠͠$̶̲̭̟̠̮̂́&̶̱̖̎̌̅́̀̾́̽͝(̶̼̪̼̘̮̜̞̰͖̂̆̓͝)̷͈̂̾͋̓]
Difficulty: Hard
Floor: 1
Time left until forced return: 4y 364d 23h 56m 12s
Lvl 0
Strength: 5
Dexterity: 8
Constitution: 5
Mana: 1
[Primary Class: Unavailable]
[Sub-class: Unavailable]
Skills:
Soul Well - lvl 1
Fleshcrafting - lvl 1
[Skill Points: 0]
[Stat Points: 0]
I stare at the glowing blue screen in front of me, unblinking. My eyes trace each word, each number, as if staring harder will change them.
What was there to say? To think?
Sure. Why not.
I can feel my lips curl upward in a half-smile, half-grimace. This is happening. Incomprehension was a luxury for the fragile, for the ones who couldn't—or wouldn't—accept something like this.
I can. I will.
Why fight it? Why bargain with reality, get angry, or start weeping over something that simply is?
Read it again. Slower.
The command cuts through the haze in my mind, sharp and cold. The voice of discipline. My brain, still fried from sensory overload, obeys out of sheer habit. Nerve signals crawl sluggishly to my eyes, forcing them to focus, to work.
Mechanically, I scan the words again.
[Name: $̵̛̛͗̓͗́͑̔̽̀́͂̋̋̈́̆̃̚͠#̴̖̻̟̮̖͔̯̬͓̟̮̪̎͊͆̈̅̿̒̈́̆͋̈́̐̏̀͘̚͠͠@̵̡̧̛̝̯͉̦̞̟̮́̓̌͊́́̐̃̃̊̆̒͆̃̾͛̍͒̍̓̍͑̐̔̇̏͂́̕̚]
[Skills: Soul Well - lvl 1. Fleshcrafting - lvl 1.]
[Difficulty: Hard.]
The more I read, the steadier my breathing becomes, the more grounded I feel. But with each line, questions spring to life in my head like weeds.
"What the eldritch fuck is wrong with my name?"
This question roars the loudest among the chaotic mess in my mind. It looks like it was scribbled by someone who can smell colours with their feet.
"Fucking Fleshcrafting? Really?"
The others—Hard difficulty? Time left? Floor one?—linger on the edges, quieter but no less important. They tap politely at the doors of my awareness, waiting for their turn.
It doesn't come because the screams once more pull me out of my thoughts.
They're much louder now, sharper, edged with raw panic. The mob that had been shouting and arguing is scattering, people darting in every direction like startled ants. Some point, others scream warnings I can't quite make out.
I follow their gestures toward the edge of the clearing.
That's when I see it.
Small. Green. Humanoid.
A picture-perfect, honest-to-god goblin.
Its skin is sickly green, its body wiry and compact, most likely built for speed rather than strength. It clutches a crude wooden spear in its clawed hands. Its face—if you could call that ugly mug a face—is twisted into a manic grin, yellowed teeth bared in wild excitement.
And it's cackling.
The sound carries across the clearing, shrill like nails on a chalkboard. Some people freeze.
The goblin doesn't. It bolts forward, legs pumping furiously, spear held low and ready.
Above its head, floating in translucent white letters:
[Goblin - lvl 1]
The screams grow even louder, desperate and panicked. Some people run toward the trees, vanishing into the forest, while others stumble back, too shocked to move. A few try to organize, shouting things like "Stay together!" or "Find weapons!" but their voices are drowned out by the chaos.
The goblin keeps coming.
Closer now, its cackling rises into a frenzied pitch. Its bloodthirsty expression leaves no room for doubt—this isn't a friendly encounter.
My hands clench into fists. My breath quickens.
The voice of Reason tries to argue—tries to urge me to run, to hide. I feel the old, familiar tug in the back of my mind, the fear that tells me to take the easiest path out. But that voice is quickly trampled, crushed under the boot of Discipline and Madness. The two merge together like fire and ice—no longer separate but a singular force that drives me forward.
Purpose.
I take a breath, and with a grin that stretches so wide it hurts, I lower my hands to the dirt, gripping two handfuls of it.
The goblin's cackle rings in my ears, loud and distorted as it hurtles toward my general direction, reckless in its bloodlust.
I hear a scream nearby, so loud that it cuts through the frenzy of the mob.
A fallen man. He's on the rounder side of the scale, wriggling on the ground, trying and failing to get back up, eyes so widened by fear they might just fall out of their sockets.
The goblin moves swiftly, raising its crude wooden spear, and with a quick thrust—it stabs the man in the neck. Blood splatters, crimson painting the ground.
Status de energia semanal
-- Ranking de
Poder 
-- Pedra de
Poder