Aliens

The next half an hour or so is quiet, at least for me. I am standing at the edge of the cleaning, a few feet away from the remains of the goblin which I decided to "throw away". No one complained since the smell was truly unflattering. It might attract other monsters, but that honestly seems more like a boon to me. That might change, though, depending on what's hiding in the forest.

The goblin's soul mist is gone, condensed into a tiny, shimmering nugget of light, no bigger than a grain of rice. It hovers in place, faintly pulsing like a heartbeat, before becoming completely inert. I try to move it with my will, the way I manipulated the mist before, but it's no use. Whatever it is now, it's no longer responding to me.

Frustrated, I reach out and poke it with my finger. The instant I touch it, the nugget melts into my palm like it was never solid to begin with.

And then—it's gone.

"What the hell?" I mutter, staring at my hand as if it just betrayed me.

"Is that it? Is this what Soul Well does?"

No answers. The nugget might as well have never existed. I glance at my status screen for clues. The level-up notification still lingers, taunting me, but the rest is a blank slate of mystery. Despite my confusion, I feel... full. Not physically, but in a way that's hard to put into words. The soul nugget must've done something when it merged with me. Or maybe I just need to hit the bathroom.

I look back toward the Fat Man's corpse, covered with a dirty sheet by someone but still in the same place as before. No one was in a hurry to touch that one, besides me, of course.

Either way, that guy's soul mist is either completely gone or has faded beyond my senses. Hell, maybe it rose to heaven. The rules of this skill are still a complete mystery to me.

But that's not the only thing bothering me.

I focus on my status screen, reading it again and again while dropping into push-ups to keep my mind from spiraling.

[Name: @̶̨̥̈́̎̇̆̅̔̓̀̀#̵͖̫̯̦̦̯̜̃̍̂͛̎̓͝͠͠$̶̲̭̟̠̮̂́&̶̱̖̎̌̅́̀̾́̽͝(̶͈̪̼̘̮̜̞̰͖̂̆̓͝)̷͈̂̾͋̓]

Difficulty: Hard

Floor: 1

Time left until forced return: 4y 364d 23h 20m 12s

Lvl 1

Strength: 6

Dexterity: 8

Constitution: 7

Mana: 2

[Primary Class: Unavailable]

[Sub-class: Unavailable]

Skills:

Soul Well - lvl 2

Fleshcrafting - lvl 2

[Skill Points: 0]

[Stat Points: 0]

The numbers feel surreal, even as I read them for the fifth time. Both skills have leveled up, though I don't have the slightest clue how to use them properly. Still, it's progress.

I also received three stat points from leveling up, which I spent almost immediately: two on Constitution, one on Mana. My body already feels tougher, more resilient. Even the deep ache in my shoulder from the goblin's club is fading faster than it should.

Mana, on the other hand, doesn't seem to have any immediate effect. It's not like I can feel a glowing blue bar in my chest or anything. Still, it seems important, invaluable even if it allows me to use my skills more easily.

By the time I finish 300 push-ups, my arms are on fire, but I can't stop grinning. I just watched my Strength stat rise from 5 to 6 in real time. Impossibly, I feel stronger. Like, "I could actually lift a 20-pound heavier dumbbell right now" stronger.

This is insane. If Constitution enhances regeneration and toughness, and Strength or Dexterity can improve through sheer effort, then...

"This is broken," I whisper to myself, barely suppressing a laugh. "Completely broken."

My body aches, but the voice of Discipline keeps pushing me. I glance around the cleaning, taking in the other people. Most of them are still dazed or muttering quietly in groups, clearly too afraid to make sense of the situation. One man is sobbing in a corner, while some others drink like it'll solve their problems.

Madness laughs, Reason sighs, my arms scream bloody murder, but the voice of Discipline is louder than all of them for now.

.

.

.

.

"You've got some stamina there, lad. What's your name?"

The voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I glance up mid-push-up to find Jim watching me. He's the old man from earlier, maybe in his seventies, with a mop of white hair and hands scarred from what I assume are decades of bar fights and kitchen burns. He's been hovering nearby and trying to make conversation for the past few minutes. Maybe it's because we appear to be the only two sober people around for now, but I've mostly ignored him.

"Lad?" he presses when I don't respond.

...Why don't I respond? It's reasonable to respond, it's not a personal question and I gain nothing from staying silent.

The corrupted text in the status window flashes in my mind for a brief instant as my eyebrows furrow.

The question hangs in the air.

"Lad, you listening to me?" Jim asks again, his voice cutting through the haze.

I don't answer right away. My mind churns, but nothing rises to the surface. The voices in my head are silent, waiting. And that's when I realize it.

I don't remember my own fucking name.

And not just my name—I don't remember anything that should matter. My parents' faces, my age, my birthday, why the hell I was asleep near a bar wearing pajamas—it's all gone, wiped clean like a slate that's been scrubbed too hard.

For a moment, fear starts to claw its way up, the kind that could paralyze me if I let it. But Discipline doesn't stay silent. Like always, it snaps Fear's neck and throws it back into the deep hole where it fucking belongs.

There's no point in unraveling over what I can't change right now. Answers won't help me fight, won't help me survive. Still, the questions linger. How much of me is missing? Will I even know if I've lost something important?

I shove those thoughts aside. My general knowledge seems intact. I know what a bottle of water is. My medical knowledge is also fine. That's enough. For now, I'll work with what I've got.

It takes only a few seconds for all of this to churn through my mind. I grab a nearby bottle of water which is most likely Jim's, twisting the cap off with more force than necessary. The old man gives me a look but doesn't complain, which leads me to believe he was going to offer it to me either way. Alas, I am a bit beyond caring right now. The cold liquid burns down my throat as I drink, giving myself a moment to think.

When I lower the bottle, I glance around, my eyes landing on a group of people huddled near the half-bar. There's a girl about my age among them, her bright red hair drawing my attention. Her T-shirt has a picture of a race car on it.

A name forms in my mind. It's stupid, but it'll do.

I set the bottle down and look at Jim, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "Thanks for the water, and sorry for not responding," I say, my tone light. "I was so focused I didn't hear you. My name's Carter. Carter Wheels, at your service."

Jim chuckles, probably amused, though his skepticism is written all over his face. "Carter Wheels, huh? Interesting name. What're you doing push-ups for, anyway? Stress relief?"

"Something like that," I say, standing and stretching my arms.

He gestures toward the bar, his tone shifting to concern. "You're gonna wear yourself out, kid. You should conserve your energy in case more of those... things show up. Police'll probably be here soon to rescue us."

I almost laugh. Poor guy. He doesn't get it yet.

I look him up and down, weighing my options. Should I tell him what's really going on? Would this old-timer even believe me if I tried? The voice of Reason chimes in—yes, it's worth a shot. It's not like the truth will stay hidden for long. The other people here will sober up, and at least one of them is bound to notice the weirdness. Better to rip the Band-Aid off now.

"Jim," I say slowly, choosing my words carefully, "I don't think the police are coming."

His brows knit together, and he frowns. "And why is that, sonny?" His tone carries an edge of anger, reminding me that this is the same guy who was screaming bloody murder an hour ago.

"Because we're not on Earth anymore," I say, meeting his gaze head-on. "I think we've been kidnapped by...aliens."

Jim blinks, his expression a mix of disbelief and irritation. "Aliens? Are you outta your damn mind?"

I resist the urge to snap back, Oi, don't look at me like I'm drunk, old man! Instead, I keep my voice steady.

"Dead serious. Think about it. Two suns in the sky. Goblins running around. None of this is normal. And did you notice the white letters above that monster's head?"

Jim shakes his head, laughing nervously.

"Alright, fine, let's say you're not insane. Why us? Why a bunch of random folks from a bar?" His denial is clear, but there's something in his voice—like he's grasping for a lifeline, even if he doesn't want to admit it.

"I don't know why," I admit. "But I can prove something weird is going on. Say the word Status out loud."

Jim gives me a look like I've grown a second head. "You serious?"

"Just do it," I insist.

He rolls his eyes but humors me. "Status."

A second passes. Then his jaw drops. "What the—holy mother of goddamn—what the hell is this?!" His curses could strip paint off a battleship, and I can't help but smirk.

"Stats. Skills. Levels," I say, "Welcome to the grind."

I can't see Jim's status window, but his face is a storm of confusion and profanity.

"Strength? Dexterity? Mana? What the hell is this, some kind of twisted video game?!"

"Feels like one," I say with a shrug. "But it's real. That goblin wasn't a hallucination. It hit me. I bled. I killed it. And now, I'm stronger because of it."

Jim tears his eyes away from the screen, his expression torn between fear and disbelief. "You're saying we're stuck in some kind of..." He struggles to finish the sentence.

"Maybe. Or maybe it's worse than that," I reply bluntly. "But one thing's for sure: we can't sit around waiting for someone to save us. If we want to survive, we need to adapt. Fast."

Jim doesn't answer right away. His gaze drifts to the others huddled near the half-bar, his shoulders tight with tension. Finally, he nods, though the fear in his eyes lingers. "Alright, Carter. What do we do?"

I smile grimly. "Simple. We fight. We train. We survive."

Inwardly, I replace "we" with "I", but it's potato pothato at this point.

Jim's lips press into a thin line, and his voice drops low. "And if we don't?"

"Then we die," I say, already turning toward the half-bar as I prepare to try and raise my dexterity.

"But that's not an option."