The derelict shack offered cold comfort, but it was privacy. Sylvester shivered, pulling his threadbare cloak tighter around his lean frame. The air smelled of damp earth and something metallic, like old blood, a scent he’d grown accustomed to in this unforgiving world. He paced the uneven dirt floor, the crunch of loose pebbles under his worn boots echoing in the quiet. His mind, however, was a whirlwind of calculations. One hundred eighty days. An F-Rank. A death sentence. Unless. He stopped, staring at his outstretched palm. The System had called it 'Damage Reflection (Passive)'. An Unstable Skill, it warned. Twenty-five percent of an aggressor’s momentum, from moderate physical impact. Not damage negation. Damage *redirection*. He still took the hit. The implications were immense. He needed to understand the threshold of 'moderate' and the true nature of 'unstable.' He picked up a loose, sharp-edged stone from the floor, its cold weight familiar in his hand. He wasn't a warrior, never had been. An actor, yes, a master of pretense, but not of pain. His stomach churned, a knot of dread twisting within him. This was necessary. Every second counted. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his jaw clenching. He had to know exactly what he was working with. With a grimace, he brought the stone down, not hard enough to break skin, but with enough force to sting. A dull thud against his forearm, just above the wrist. The impact vibrated up his arm, a sharp, unpleasant sensation. He gritted his teeth, waiting. Nothing. No System notification. No surge of energy. Just the lingering ache of a self-inflicted bruise. He frowned. “Moderate physical impact,” he whispered, testing the words. The previous encounter with Kael had been a shove, a significant amount of force. This was a tap. He needed more. He needed to simulate the kind of blow that would activate the ability, without incapacitating himself in his own testing. Risk was unavoidable. Survival demanded it. He found a thicker piece of rock, jagged and heavy. His hand trembled as he raised it. This wasn't acting. There were no retakes. His life depended on this moment of self-mutilation. He closed his eyes for a split second, picturing the scenario, focusing on the sheer, desperate need to survive. He brought the rock down, a controlled, deliberate strike against the same spot on his forearm. A sharp crack, not bone, but the sound of impact against taut muscle. He cried out, a guttural sound torn from his throat. Then, a faint shimmer. A pale, almost imperceptible blue light pulsed around his arm, barely visible in the dim shack. And a System notification, small and discreet, flashed in the corner of his vision. “Damage Reflection (Passive) Activated.” He gasped, the pain a searing line across his arm, but a cold analytical part of his brain took over. He felt it. A subtle recoil, a strange energetic pushback that seemed to originate from the impact point, radiating outwards. It was like a miniature spring, absorbing and then expelling force. He hadn't just taken the blow; the blow had been *met*. He touched his arm, a blossoming bruise already forming. It hurt, intensely. The ability didn't make him invulnerable. It just made his attacker hurt too. This was his weapon. This was his chance. --- His arm throbbed, a constant, dull reminder, but Sylvester ignored it, his gaze fixed on the holographic System screen. He navigated to the 'Bestiary' tab, the faint blue light illuminating his intense features. The list scrolled, dense with names and faint, shimmering illustrations. F-Rank creatures first. He needed the absolute weakest, the most pathetic excuse for a threat. He was not here for glory; he was here for survival, and that meant ruthless efficiency. Goblin. Entry #001. A crude, greenish humanoid. Low intellect, aggressive, tribal. Weaknesses: Light, blunt force trauma. Habitat: Subterranean caverns, desolate surface regions. Average Mana Affinity: F-Rank. Threat Level: Minimal. Preferred attack: Crude club, claw swipe. He zoomed in on the image, studying the creature's anatomy, its gangly limbs, its disproportionately large head. It looked stupid. Good. He scrolled further, past Cave Leeches, their slimy forms depicted in sickening detail, and Gloom Moths, winged insects that promised debilitating status effects. No. He needed something predictable, something that would engage in direct physical combat, something that would *hit* him. The Goblins fit the bill perfectly. They were cannon fodder, the bottom rung of this world’s brutal hierarchy. His personal stepping stones. His strategy solidified. He would find a goblin, provoke it, and let it strike him. The Damage Reflection would activate. He would take the pain, but the goblin would feel a quarter of its own momentum returned, jarring it, disorienting it. That brief moment of confusion, that flicker of pain, would be his window. His opportunity to strike back. He wasn’t strong, but he was cunning. He was an actor, and he knew how to exploit a scene. He checked the System's map, a crude overlay of his current location and the immediate surrounding area. The barracks, the nutrient processing caverns, and then, a vast expanse of 'Desolate Outskirts'. That was where the Goblins were marked, faint red dots indicating their probable territories. The nearest cluster was a half-day's walk, beyond the perimeter of the summoned individuals' designated work zones. He would have to slip away, unnoticed. Another performance, another deception. His mind raced, calculating risks. The 'Unstable Skill' warning still haunted him. What did 'prolonged use' mean? Would it break him? Would it amplify his mana sickness? The System offered no further details, a cold, uncaring observer. He didn't have the luxury of hesitation. His internal clock was ticking louder than any warning. He had to gamble. He had to push his limits. His very existence depended on turning his greatest weakness, his frailty, into a weapon. --- Hours later, under a sky the color of bruised plums, Sylvester moved through the desolate outskirts. The ground was rocky and uneven, dotted with sparse, skeletal trees that offered no shelter. The air grew colder with every step, biting at his exposed skin. He kept to the shadows of crumbling rock formations, his senses heightened, every rustle of dry leaves, every distant echo, making his heart hammer against his ribs. He had slipped away from the barracks during the shift change for nutrient processing, feigning a sudden stomach ailment. No one had paid him much mind. An F-rank, a liability, easily dismissed. It was perfect. His invisibility was his greatest asset, allowing him to move where others wouldn't bother to look. The further he walked, the more alien the landscape became, the more certain he was that he was truly alone. Then he heard it. A chittering, guttural sound, carried on the thin, frigid wind. Distinct. Unmistakable. Goblins. His breath caught in his throat, a mix of primal fear and a strange, almost manic exhilaration. This was it. The real test. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. He wasn't afraid to die, not anymore. He was afraid to *fail* to live. That was the difference. He crept forward, pressing himself against a smooth, cold rock face. Around a bend, in a small, sheltered hollow, three figures were huddled. Small, grotesque, and undeniably green. Goblins. Their crude clubs lay beside them, their small, beady eyes scanning the desolate landscape with an almost comical lack of vigilance. One was gnawing on something indistinguishable, its movements crude and animalistic. They were exactly as the System described. His mind snapped into focus, the actor's instinct for timing and delivery kicking in. He needed to draw one away, isolate it. Three would be too much for his first real combat encounter. He scanned the terrain, identifying a narrow crevice between two large boulders, a perfect choke point. He would lure one there. The fear was still a cold knot in his stomach, but it was overshadowed by the burning urgency of his purpose. He could not afford to hesitate. He had to make the first move. He found a loose, fist-sized rock, hefting it experimentally. It was light, but enough to make a sound. He aimed it, not at a goblin, but at a stone slab several yards beyond them, calculating the ricochet. A direct hit might alert them all. A subtle noise, however, might only draw the attention of one. He took a deep breath, steadied his arm, and threw. The rock sailed through the air, a faint whistle, before striking the slab with a sharp *clack*. --- The *clack* echoed, unnaturally loud in the desolate quiet. One of the goblins, the one gnawing on carrion, jerked its head up, its beady eyes swiveling towards the sound. It chittered, a harsh, inquisitive noise, then shuffled to its feet, picking up its crude club. It was smaller than the others, its movements slightly more hesitant. Perfect. Sylvester held his breath, pressed flat against the rock, watching it approach the sound’s origin. The goblin shambled past his hiding spot, its stench of damp fur and unwashed rot wafting over him. He waited until it was fully committed to the path, then burst from cover, a sudden, jarring movement. “Hey!” he yelled, his voice raw and thin, but piercing enough to make the creature flinch. The goblin spun, its small face contorted in a snarl, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth. It raised its club, a clumsy, predictable motion. Sylvester didn’t dodge. He stood his ground, bracing himself, his arms raised slightly to protect his head, but otherwise presenting his body as a target. The club, a rough-hewn branch, arced downwards with surprising speed. He saw it coming, a blur of motion, felt the wind of its passage. Then, the sickening *thwack* against his left shoulder. Pain exploded, a white-hot agony that stole his breath. He stumbled, a strangled cry escaping his lips, his vision swimming with black spots. But before he could fall, before the full weight of the blow could settle, he felt it. That subtle, energetic recoil. The blue shimmer, faint even through his pain-hazed eyes. The System notification, a quiet hum in his awareness: “Damage Reflection (Passive) Activated.” And the goblin. The creature, which had been mid-swing, suddenly lurched back, stumbling over its own feet. Its crude club clattered to the ground as it grunted, a confused, pained sound. Its beady eyes widened, not with rage, but with a flicker of pure disorientation, its momentum clearly disrupted. Sylvester gasped, sucking in air, the pain in his shoulder a dull roar, but a surge of grim satisfaction shot through him. It worked. The goblin was off balance, shaking its head, looking at its own club as if it had betrayed it. This was his window. His ability didn't negate the damage, but it bought him precious seconds, seconds he intended to use. He clenched his jaw, ignoring the tremor in his limbs, and lunged forward. --- The skirmish was brutal, clumsy, and utterly terrifying. Sylvester moved with a desperate, animalistic energy, fueled by adrenaline and the sheer terror of his ticking clock. The first goblin, still disoriented from the reflected blow, stumbled back, giving him an opening. He kicked out, a poorly aimed strike to its knee, sending it sprawling. Before it could recover, he grabbed its discarded club, a rough, splinted branch, and brought it down on the creature’s head. Not with skill, but with pure, unadulterated force. A wet crunch, and the goblin went limp. But the other two, roused by the commotion, were upon him. One lunged, its claws extended, catching him across the arm. He cried out, the pain a fresh, searing line. But again, the faint blue shimmer, the System’s silent confirmation. The goblin recoiled, shaking its head, giving him the precious fraction of a second he needed. He swung the club wildly, catching it in the side. It staggered, but kept coming. The third goblin circled, more cautious, its club raised defensively. Sylvester felt his strength ebbing, his body screaming in protest. Every movement sent fresh jolts of agony through his shoulder and arm. He was an F-Rank, barely, and these were F-Rank monsters. He wasn't out-matching them with power, he was out-lasting them with cunning and his desperate will to survive. He feinted left, drawing the cautious goblin’s attention, then spun, bringing the club around in a wide, desperate arc. It connected with the attacking goblin’s head, a sickening crack this time. The creature crumpled, lifeless. One left. The cautious one. Its eyes, now filled with a flicker of genuine fear, darted between its fallen comrades and Sylvester, who stood panting, blood dripping from his arm, the club heavy and slick in his trembling hands. It chittered nervously, taking a step back. Sylvester knew he had to press his advantage. He stalked forward, not fast, but relentless, breathing heavily, every muscle screaming. The goblin, seeing its chance for escape dwindling, let out a desperate shriek and lunged, its club held low, aiming for his legs. He didn't try to block or dodge. Not this time. He just stood there, a grim, defiant target. The blow connected with his shin, a sharp crack of bone against wood. Pain exploded, bringing him to his knees, but the blue light flared brighter than before. The goblin screamed, a high-pitched, almost human sound, dropping its club and clutching its arm, which twisted at an unnatural angle. The reflected momentum had truly shattered it this time. Sylvester, gritting his teeth against the agony in his leg, forced himself up, bringing his own club down with a final, desperate roar onto the goblin’s head. It went down without a sound. He stood there, swaying, the world spinning around him. Blood seeped from multiple wounds, his body aching in every fiber. He had done it. He had survived. His first fight. His first kill. A wave of nausea washed over him, but underneath it, a profound, almost dizzying sense of accomplishment. Then, a series of System notifications flashed, more vibrant than any he’d seen before. “Goblin (F-Rank) defeated. Experience Gained.” “Goblin (F-Rank) defeated. Experience Gained.” “Goblin (F-Rank) defeated. Experience Gained.” Another screen popped up, larger than the others. A progress bar, slowly filling. “Current Experience: 30/100 to E-Rank.” Sylvester stared, a raw, primal scream of triumph building in his chest. He had a path. He had a way. The fear was still there, a constant companion, but now, so was a flicker of hope. He wasn't just delaying his death; he was fighting for his life. As the last goblin fell, a new System notification flashed, not for an upgrade, but a cryptic message: "Proximity alert: Irregular Mana Signature detected. Proceed with caution."

Chapter 5: First Step: F-Rank