The young man's eyes snapped open — as if jolted awake by a sudden impulse that shattered sleep more violently than a scream. He inhaled sharply and nervously, as though he'd forgotten how to breathe for the past few minutes. His body reacted instinctively, but his mind panicked — unable to comprehend what had happened.
He lay on damp soil, surrounded by a dense forest wrapped in thick, opaque fog. The dark tree branches arched over him, twisted like the fingers of a dead giant reaching for the sky. The air carried strange sounds — dull, unsettling, organic… they didn't resemble birdsong or any familiar natural noises. The fauna here sounded... different. As if the forest lived with a life of its own — foreign and unknowable.
His body trembled, his mind spiraled in chaos. Dozens of scenarios flashed through his head — kidnapping, accident, drunken escapade... But no memory surfaced. None brought any relief. Nothing explained what had happened.
"...Hello?" he whispered, his voice hoarse and desperate, as if hoping the answer would fall from the sky.
It didn't.
He pushed himself up cautiously on his elbows, feeling a cramp in his back and a burning under his ribs. He was dressed in what looked like peasant clothing from the medieval era: a one-piece tunic made of coarse, low-quality yarn tied at the waist with a rope, and pants made of rawhide, the color of horsehair.
The only thing he had with him was a one-handed pickaxe — surprisingly primitive, made of bronze, with just a single tooth.
His clothing and tool suggested one thing — he was a nobody. A peasant? A slave? Someone of low birth, pushed to the bottom of the social ladder. And yet… the memories didn't fit. Twenty-first-century technology, video games, people, city sounds, comics, movies… All of it was still in his head, as vividly as if it were yesterday.
These two images — the primitive world and modern memory — clashed violently inside him.
"...Did I transmigrate?" the thought flickered through his mind. And while it sounded absurd, it was also... the only explanation.
But even that didn't explain why he had woken up alone in the middle of a dark, hostile forest.
He looked around carefully, trying to find anything that might justify his current situation. Despite the damp ground, there was no grass and no trace of how he got there. The only imprint in the soil was the shallow indentation from his own body, left moments earlier.
This sparked a new question. If there were no footprints — no human steps, no cart tracks, no drag marks — then how did he get here? He didn't look like someone who had been lying there for hours; his body showed no signs of cold or stiffness. If something had happened earlier, the traces should still be there.
"Maybe this is my starter kit… the worst one, but still."
The thought came out of nowhere, prompted by a memory of a game whose title had slipped from his mind. Maybe he'd gotten a class with a proud name like "Peasant," and his gear — a yarn tunic, horsehair-colored leather pants, and a single-toothed bronze pickaxe — was just part of that desperate specification.
Not a particularly convincing argument, but the only one that fit this... absurdity.
Ironic amusement was already pushing an uneasy chuckle out of his chest when suddenly something rustled in the bushes. Fear invaded his body like ice — immediate, deep, and merciless. He froze, eyes locked on the source of the sound.
Brief silence. Tension. And then...
A rabbit jumped out of the bushes.
Relief came instantly. A rabbit wasn't a wolf. Not a boar. Not something that could rip out his throat. But... something was off.
Something about the creature caught his attention like a knife to the throat.
A horn.
Sharp, distinct, protruding from the rabbit's forehead like a weapon of nature that shouldn't exist. It wasn't a growth. It didn't look like a deformity. It was a real, curved horn, its tip glowing with a faint light. The animal calmly chewed a leaf from a nearby plant, completely unaware of the impression it had made.
Samael froze, images from anime and games flooding his mind — bizarre creatures in bizarre worlds. Horned rabbits, goblins, dragons, health bars… something clicked.
And then the world stopped.
A translucent screen appeared before his eyes.
--------------
Name: Horned Rabbit
Class: Low Beast
Type: Animal / Magical
Rank: G- (lowest known)
Behavior:
Herbivore
Territorial (only during mating season)
Flees from threats but can attack in self-defense
Known Abilities:
[Horn Strike][Rank G] — a quick attack aimed at the opponent's legs. Can cause minor injuries or loss of balance.
[Escape Instinct][Rank E-] — when threatened, releases a sudden surge of adrenaline, temporarily increasing speed and reflexes.
[Body Mimicry] [Rank F]— in rare cases, it can adapt its fur color to match the forest floor.
Weaknesses:
Low physical strength
Highly susceptible to fear
Almost zero resistance to magic
Materials Obtained Upon Death:
Meat (low quality): edible, but requires thorough cooking. May cause indigestion in untrained individuals.
Horn: a hard, curved growth. Can be used as a component for basic mental resistance amulets or as a part of primitive piercing weapons.
Hide: thin and flexible. Suitable for crafting light bands and pouches.
Teeth and claws: useless in combat, but used by local tribes as forest spirit-repelling talismans. Also used as an alchemical ingredient by novice alchemists.
------
"Do I have a system?"
That was the first thought that crossed his mind. He had read too many stories where the protagonist received a powerful interface to aid in their development—a "system" that guided them through a new world, providing skills, equipment, and quests.
He tried the classic commands. "Status." "Inventory." "Player panel."
Nothing.
Silence. No reaction. No screen appeared before his eyes. Only the rustling of leaves and the quiet sound of chewing from a horned rabbit still occupied with a leaf.
But then... Out of curiosity, he focused more intently on the tree to the left—concentrating not on its general appearance, but on the question: "What kind of tree is this?"
A small screen appeared before his eyes—translucent, flickering like a hologram. However, when he looked away, it disappeared.
He blinked. Looked again. The screen returned.
He did the same with the horned rabbit. Again, a panel appeared with the same detailed information.
He began experimenting. A stone. A bush. Another plant. Each of these elements triggered a similar response—as if his mind was activating something more deeply encoded.
It wasn't a system. Not in the traditional sense.
But... a skill? Maybe even an innate one?
After all, in many stories—whether anime or books—even ordinary secondary characters, usually merchants or researchers, possessed a skill called "Appraisal." Maybe it worked the same way for him.
It didn't fit his peasant clothes, but perhaps that was the paradox. Perhaps the innate skill had been granted to him regardless of class or profession.
"Not bad," he muttered to himself. "At least I have some tool. Something that might help me survive. And if I'm lucky, maybe even make some money... if in this world..."
His voice trailed off, and a spark of realization flashed in his mind.
"World... damn... fantasy world."
Alchemy. If the rabbit's horns could be used as an alchemical ingredient, that meant alchemists really existed here. And since there are alchemists, there must be recipes, potions, and an entire market based on monster materials.
"Doesn't matter. If this is that kind of world, I need to find civilization as soon as possible."
He looked around again, his gaze drifting down to his poor attire and one-handed pickaxe.
"Because in my state, even a goblin might be too tough to beat."
He decided to move forward. He didn't have a map, nor any idea of where he was. But he had something—his "assessment" skill, which he was now using to its maximum. He moved through the forest, in silence and focus, examining every tree, leaf, and animal. His intention was clear: to look out for potential danger, and with a bit of luck, find something valuable or practical.
After about an hour of walking, he heard the crackling of a fire. It caused a mix of excitement and unease within him. He wasn't sure who he might be dealing with or whether he had arrived near a village. It could be anything, so a more cautious approach seemed more appropriate.
He hid behind some bushes, carefully placing each step to avoid provoking any potential threat. Keeping his hidden stance, he cautiously crawled closer. The sight he saw was all too human.
It was a small campsite—simple and makeshift. A piece of canvas was strung between branches, forming a makeshift tent, meant to protect the sleeper from the wind. The fire was set up clumsily but burned intensely. Thanks to his assessment skill, he even learned that the wood used for the fire was a type that burned long and had a really dry structure, ideal for kindling.
On a stick, on a makeshift grill over the fire, something was sizzling—most likely meat from a wild rabbit or fox. Simple meat skewered on the grill. However, the sight alone caused a slight tightening in his stomach. He was hungry, but that wasn't his current concern. His real concern was the figure sitting next to the fire—a man—tattered, dirty, but well-built. Half-armed—a knife at his belt, an axe leaning against a tree.
He was dressed quite grotesquely:
A thick leather vest.
Pants made of patched canvas.
Boots resembling cowboy boots, old but sturdy.
A belt with sewn pouches.
A bent, metal emblem—possibly a former part of some symbol.
Behind him… something that instantly froze the blood in his veins.
The dead body of a woman. She was lying on her side, wearing a torn dress, her face twisted in terror. She had not been dead long. Around her neck—marks of strangulation, on her arms—broken bindings. The skin on her wrists was torn. He had no chance of saving her. He hadn't even known she was there. But her mere presence was enough to tell him that his current opponent was most likely a bandit.
The bandit laughed to himself, muttering:
"Stupid peasants… they thought they'd take the girl from me. Pff… One even came with a pitchfork. Idiots."
This was not someone who would let him leave, and he was close enough to fear that if he turned around, he might get a stab in the back. So, he decided to first use his "Assessment" skill, and only after that, think about what to do next.
------
Name: VictorAge: 34Race: HumanClass: BanditType: Human / CriminalRank: G(lowest known among humans)
Behavior:
Professional Bandit: Often roams forests or secluded areas, seeking victims to attack. Always ready to strike weaker or unprepared individuals.
Malicious: Exhibits a sadistic attitude toward captured victims, mocking their fear.
Loot Seeker: Morality means nothing to him; only profit matters. Will kill or kidnap if it ensures his survival.
Avoids Unnecessary Risk: Does not engage in fights that might lead to his death. He avoids stronger opponents.
Psychological Violence: Uses jokes and mockery to break victims mentally and instill fear.
Known Skills:
Dirty Strike [Rank G+]: In close combat, the bandit gains a small chance to strike a vulnerable area (e.g., kidneys, groin). This may temporarily lower the opponent's effectiveness.
Deception [Rank G+]: Slightly higher chance to successfully deceive verbally or physically.
Cheap Threat [Rank G]: Can apply a small amount of psychological pressure on weaker or more frightened opponents. Most effective against physically weaker foes or those of lower status than the lowest nobility.
Ambush [Rank E-]: Small bonus to attack if the bandit starts the fight from hiding. Does not work if the opponent senses your presence.
Weaknesses:
Broken Rib (3–4 ribs, left side of the chest – just under the armpit): Strikes to this area have a +15% chance to stun or temporarily reduce defense. With enough successive strikes, a fatal blow is possible.
Material Obtained After Killing:
Heart of a Criminal (Rare, Corrupt Essence): In the hands of a skilled alchemist or necromancer, this can be used as an ingredient in potions of rage, amulets of fury, or rituals to summon the spirits of those who died in suffering.
Blood of the Bandit (Contaminated): Dark red, thick. When properly prepared, it can be used in potions of courage but comes with the risk of inducing aggression and loss of control. In black magic, it is used in curses or as a mark of death.
Tooth of a Criminal (Corrupted): Can be processed into a runic talisman that increases mental resistance to fear and pain. Used in dark magic rituals to mark a victim.
Skin (Worn, Corrupted): Despite being damaged, it can be transformed into ritual parchment for recording destructive spells or used to create bands with a temporary invisibility effect (low durability).
Poisoned Fingernails: Bandits of lower ranks are often plagued by internal decay. Their fingernails may carry parasites and magical diseases—these can be used in potions that induce hallucinations and fever.
-----------
Samael was facing an internal conflict. Retreating was no longer an option — the risk of being detected was too high. On the other hand, a direct fight, even with such a common thug, wasn't a good idea. The bandit, although simple in appearance, was clearly physically stronger.
Victor — yes, according to his skills, that was the opponent's name — wasn't one of the powerful warriors, but for the current Samael, he still posed a real threat. Even if he knew his weak spot, fighting someone twice his size was more than just a test of skills. It wasn't just about physical strength. Victor's waist circumference significantly exceeded the standards for someone living off robbery and theft. Samael, though tall — 182 centimeters — looked like a young man next to him. Victor was over two meters tall and probably weighed twice as much as he did.
Samael's weapon — a pickaxe in good condition — was of higher quality than the knife at Victor's belt, or even the axe leaning against a nearby tree trunk. The problem was that if the bandit managed to grab the axe, he would immediately gain an advantage in reach. The longer handle and massive body weight could easily end Samael's life with one brutal strike.
In the best-case scenario, Victor would only reach for the knife. Even then, the chances would be slim. Samael had no experience in combat. And the pickaxe — though solid — could get stuck in the opponent's body, leaving him defenseless if the bandit was still able to move.
Additionally, there was still the issue of skills. Their functioning remained a mystery to him. How exactly did the Unholy Strike [Rank G+] work? Was Victor's strike enhanced by magical energy? Or did it work passively — unnoticed, but effectively? Samael wasn't sure. He only knew one thing: he had to make a decision. And quickly.
Samael stood still, not wanting any sound to alert Victor and, in turn, cause him to attack. He didn't want to end up like the dead woman near the campfire.
The leaves above his head trembled quietly, stirred by a gentle gust of wind. A moment earlier, when he had heard the dull sound of metal hitting a tree trunk, he hadn't even breathed. Now — although he had the apparent advantage — his body was paralyzed by the weight of something far more terrifying than the bandit himself.
The thought of killing a man.
Not a monster, not a beast. A man.
He felt the internal clash of two forces. On one side, something screamed to retreat, hide, wait it out. On the other… the cool voice of reason reminding him that he was in a no-turning-back situation.
"If you retreat now, if you make even one wrong move — he'll notice you. And then…"
He didn't need to finish. He already saw in his mind's eye how Victor's massive figure would charge at him, how his nostrils would flare with the excitement of a hunter, how his heavy hand would grip the axe handle, and then — it would be over.A crushed spine. Lungs pierced by a blade.Life cut short by his own hesitation.
But was what he was planning really better?To kill a man… not in battle, not in defense, but from hiding.To strike unexpectedly, like an animal.To swing at an unsuspecting man and pierce him with iron.He knew that Victor was a bandit who clearly had more blood on his hands than just the life of one woman. After all, he was much older than him, and it was probably not his first such act.
"What if he's just one of those whom fate pushed onto the wrong path? What if… he had the same choice as you?"
This thought, although it should have prompted Samael to look more kindly at Victor's figure, had the opposite effect. Instead of feeling sympathy, it allowed him to see the other man differently.Not as a threat.Not as a human.As prey.
A leather vest — even worn, with frayed seams and traces of long-dried blood — was still an upgrade compared to the linen shirt Samael wore. The fabric of his clothing clung to his body, soaked with sweat, dust, and moisture. Attached to the vest was a metal badge — distorted and rusted, it could have come from some bandit group. Ultimately, it would need to be cut off, thrown into the river, buried — whatever it took to wash away the identity that could bring even greater trouble.
The boots — high, resembling cowboy boots, leather, and clearly worn, but still holding their shape. They creaked quietly with every movement, but the soles were still intact. For the journey — irreplaceable.At his waist, a knife — though its blade was worn, it was still dangerous.On his hip hung saddlebags — slightly swollen with minimal weight. Their contents might have been symbolic, maybe some dried meat, old bandages, a crumpled map... but for someone like Samael, it was the difference between survival and death.And the axe, casually resting against the trunk of a tree. Long, with a wide blade, massive, used with brutal certainty.
If he managed to survive and acquire all of this... Samael wouldn't just increase his chances of continuing his journey. He would gain an advantage he had never had before. Armed, dressed, with supplies and weapons — he would finally stop being an easy target.
He began mentally calculating the value of each of these items, assessing them not only with his eyes but also through the lens of the skill he carried within — Evaluation. Numbers. Parameters. Potential.And this only deepened the feeling that was already beginning to stir inside him.Warm.Persistent.Sticky like resin.
It wasn't fear that broke his resistance. It was greed.It didn't fight with his conscience.It simply silenced it, like a mother rocking a crying child to sleep.
He began to analyze.Methodically.Without illusions:
Waiting it out? If only his hideout had been better. If the bushes weren't so sparse and the trees had thicker trunks. But it only took one suspicious look from Victor, one quick tilt of his head... and he would be discovered.
Engaging him in conversation? Probably the worst possible idea. He looked like a peasant, like one of those people Victor and his kind robbed. One look would be enough for the bandit to pull out a knife — or maybe an axe — and come at him like a dog let off a leash.
Running? No.Behind him was too open a field. Too many leaves and branches ready to give him away with the first louder rustle.Too few trees, too little cover.One broken branch, one stumble, and he would be dead.
Only one option remained.
Attack.Now.From surprise.
Victor was just tearing another piece of meat from the spit, like a wild animal. He devoured it greedily, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath. Every so often, he smacked his lips, burped, and chuckled at his own thoughts.
There was enough space behind him to swing the pickaxe properly. One move. One strike.That was all.
Samael could feel his heart beating faster, but not out of fear.Not this time.
It was an electrifying certainty.That if he did it right, he wouldn't just survive.He would gain.
He felt a tremor in his legs. Not from fear. From excitement.For the first time in a long while, he had the feeling that he could gain something. That something was owed to him.It was as if the world, which had robbed him so many times before, had finally given him a chance to reach for his part.
He tightened his grip on the pickaxe handle.Victor was turned away. Preoccupied.A few steps. One strike.
That was all.
One more step. And another.
Samael stood in a spot where he could swing — the space was wide enough, nothing could obstruct him, there was no tree, bush, or barrier between him and Victor's neck. He gripped the pickaxe handle so tightly that his fingers turned white. He felt sweat dripping down his neck, his mouth drying from the tension, and his heart, which had been pounding like a hunted animal, suddenly slowed down, as though it knew it was entering a moment of absolute concentration.
Victor stirred restlessly, chewing a chunk of meat with gusto. Suddenly, something within him trembled — perhaps the rustle of the grass, perhaps instinct — the bandit's head jerked to the side, beginning to turn slowly, and his eyes met Samael's.
That gaze lasted no longer than the beat of a heart, but it contained everything — surprise, anger, disbelief, and somewhere at the end — pure fear.
He didn't wait. He swung his entire body, putting all his strength into the strike, all the weight of the moment, all the emotional charge that had built up in him since the first time he spotted the campfire between the trees.
The sharp end of the pickaxe pierced Victor's temple with a wet, dull crunch that would forever be engraved in his memory. The strike was brutal, direct, swift — as though the steel had sought the soft spot on its own. The bandit's body trembled, his hands rising in a helpless gesture, and his eyes remained wide open, as if his mind was still trying to understand what had just happened.
"Z-z-z..." he stammered, as though trying to say something, but his tongue no longer knew words, and his lungs lacked the strength to push them out.
He fell to the side, heavily, with a thud that echoed through the forest like a distant drum signaling the end.
Samael stood above him, still gripping the weapon's handle, his chest lifted as if he could breathe more deeply. And then he felt it.
Not relief. Not regret.
Pleasure.Quiet, foreign, primal. Something inside him smiled, almost with satisfaction. The warmth of this feeling was unsettling — as if he had crossed a boundary that had always seemed untouchable, and on the other side, there was not fear, but... satisfaction.
"It was easier than I thought," crossed his mind.
And though something else came shortly after — the voice of reason, a sober calculation, shock, and an attempt to restore internal balance — that first impulse could no longer be erased.
The pleasure remained. Soft as a whisper, sticky like resin, unsettling and promising at the same time.
Not a minute passed before Samael crouched by the bandit's body, his movements mechanical, without hesitation, as if he were not doing this for the first time — as if Victor's body was already just a resource, not a man. He cut open the leather vest, ripped it off with a brutal tug, struggling to remove it from the broad shoulders of the corpse. Blood from the head wound was now seeping more slowly, staining the ground and the vest with crimson streaks. It didn't bother him.
He removed the boots more carefully — they were solid, necessary, he didn't want to destroy them. He searched the pockets, took the pouches, even the knife, though it was rusted, and strapped it to his belt. When he donned the bandit's clothing, he felt how the weight of the fabric settled differently on his shoulders — the rough, smoke- and sweat-stained material wrapped around him like a mark of a new identity. He was no longer just a man in a linen shirt.
He was someone more.Someone stronger.Someone who had survived.
Dressed like the dead Victor, Samael approached the campfire and sat exactly where his opponent had just been. He fixed his gaze on the grill, where the last bits of scorched meat still sizzled — he didn't ask himself what it had been, he didn't need to know.
He took the first bite, chewing slowly, as if trying to remember every taste, every note of burning, fat, and smoke.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't a smile of relief.It wasn't a smile of triumph.
It was a devilish smile — wide, unsettling, as if something inside him had just awoken from a deep sleep.Something that had tasted blood and wasn't planning to fall asleep so easily again.
In the firelight, his face seemed almost alien — the warmth of the flames reflected in his eyes, but what sparkled there had nothing to do with fear.
It was certainty.It was awareness.
That he was no longer the same man he had been in the morning.