Chef Class

Jayce's heart sank as despair washed over him like a tidal wave. The realization of his assigned class, Chef, felt like a cruel joke. All those endless hours of grinding, pushing himself to the limits, all for naught. He had dreamt of acquiring a legendary class, one that would grant him the power to carve a path through the impending apocalypse.

In his mind's eye, he had envisioned himself as a master swordsman, his blade gleaming with an otherworldly light as he single-handedly felled hordes of monsters. He had imagined himself as a revered warrior, leading the charge against the forces of darkness, becoming a beacon of hope for the remnants of humanity.

But fate had dealt him a different hand, one that left him feeling helpless and lost. The title of a chef, once a cherished dream, now felt like a bitter reminder of a past life that had been shattered by the cataclysmic events that unfolded. The world he had known was no more, replaced by a harsh and unforgiving reality.

With a heavy sigh, Jayce mustered the strength to open his status screen, hoping against hope that there might be something positive amidst the ruins of his shattered aspirations. His eyes, still listless, scanned the screen for any glimmer of encouragement.

Name: Jayce

Title: N/A

Class: Chef

Subclass: N/A

Level: 1

EXP: 0/100

Health 100/100

Mana: 50/50

Strength: 2

Dexterity: 2

Intelligence: 1

Vitality: 3

Luck: 20

Stat points: 0

Jayce's eyes narrowed with determination as he surveyed his meager stat allocation. The numbers before him, a mere total of 8, sent a surge of disgust coursing through his veins. Compared to his previous class as a Swordsman, even at level 1, this Chef class seemed pitifully weak. He could almost taste the bitterness of disappointment rising in his throat.

The most significant change lay in his Luck stat, standing at a total of 20. It was a peculiar twist of fate, yet Luck had always been an intangible attribute, its benefits elusive and uncertain.

"Why must I be burdened with such a fate?" Jayce muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. This second chance at life was supposed to be an opportunity to forge a new path, to rise above the challenges of the new world. But now, it seemed as though the odds were stacked against him, leaving him the weakest individual on Earth.

Refusing to succumb to despair, Jayce swiftly shifted his focus, hoping against hope that there might be a glimmer of combat-related skills that could salvage his situation. His gaze settled on the skills column, his heart yearning for a shred of hope.

Skills:

Basic Cooking (lvl. 1) - Allows the creation of simple dishes with minor beneficial effects.

Ingredient Analysis (lvl. 1) - Ability to discern the properties and quality of ingredients.

Taste Enhancement (lvl. 1) - Enhances the flavor and nutritional value of prepared dishes.

VIP15 (max) - Your luck is increased. Small chance of converting temporary stat boosts to permanent

As he scanned the skills before him, the budding hope was swiftly extinguished. Each skill listed was centered around non-combat abilities, each one related to the culinary arts. A deep sigh escaped Jayce's lips, his disappointment palpable.

"What is this... garbage?" he muttered, his voice laced with frustration and disbelief. He scrutinized the golden-colored VIP15 skill with a confused look.

"Perhaps there's a silver lining in this skill... but without any combat abilities, how can I hope to survive?" Jayce's voice resonated with resolve, his mind steeling itself against the overwhelming odds. Ten years spent navigating the unforgiving landscape of the apocalypse had honed his mental fortitude. He knew that dwelling on the negatives could only spell his downfall.

"I don't have time to wallow in self-pity," Jayce declared, his frown deepening. The challenges that lay ahead demanded his attention and unwavering determination.

The world around him plunged into an abyss of chaos, the air thick with impending danger. Jayce's instincts screamed for him to find shelter, to seek refuge from the hordes of bloodthirsty monsters that now littered the once familiar streets.

Memories flooded his mind, memories of the initial calamity that had turned the world upside down. In those terrifying early days, he had cowered in fear, desperately evading the clutches of merciless goblins that hunted the vulnerable survivors. It was only at the break of dawn that he stumbled upon an underground shelter, a beacon of hope in a sea of despair.

With every ounce of determination, Jayce raced forward, his feet pounding against the pavement as he made his way toward the underground haven. His heart beat in sync with the rhythm of his footsteps, a resolute symphony of survival.

Jayce's heart raced as he sprinted through the chaotic streets, the symphony of screams and terror echoing in his ears. Desperation filled his voice as he tried to warn others, to guide them to safety, but his cries fell on deaf ears. The terror-stricken survivors, their faces etched with fear, rushed past him, their gazes locked in a haunting dance with the horrors that pursued them.

With a heavy sigh of disappointment, Jayce shook his head, a profound sense of pity welling within him. Their panic had consumed them, rendering them blind to the voice of reason. Undeterred, he pressed forward, his determination unyielding, his eyes fixed on the sanctuary that beckoned him.

The neglected muscles of his body protested vehemently, aching and protesting against the sudden exertion after months of neglect. But Jayce pushed through the pain, fueled by the urgency of the moment. Each step he took brought him closer to the shelter, his mind focused on reaching its relative safety.

As he raced forward, an unexpected sight caught his attention—a woman huddled against a wall, her expression one of despair. She wore a flowing green robe, its fabric a stark contrast to the bleakness that surrounded them. A staff lay on the ground before her, a symbol of her calling.

Jayce's eyes widened in surprise, a flicker of recognition igniting within him. In his previous life, he had witnessed this woman's lifeless body lying in the streets, her fate sealed in the chaos that had consumed their world.

Unbeknownst to him at the time, the green robes she wore signified her as a Cleric, a formidable healer and guardian of life. In the waning days before his own demise, there had been only five healers on the entire continent, their worth surpassing that of ten thousand swordsmen.

His steps faltered, his body frozen in place as he contemplated his next move. The woman's despair tugged at his heart, and a profound realization dawned upon him. In this ravaged world, the presence of a healer was a rare and invaluable gift.