I have to save someone!
That was the only thing running through Lucian's mind as his pale hands pressed down on the CPR dummy's chest, harder and faster than they probably should've been, because he couldn't afford to hesitate or slow down.
"One… two… three—"
"Lucian! Wrong! You're pushing too far!"
Mr. Lewis stepped in without missing a beat, pulling Lucian's hands away and taking his place with practiced ease, showing the proper way to do it—arms locked, back straight, and compressions that landed with clean, steady force, exactly five centimeters deep.
Lucian backed off and watched, trying not to clench his fists as the shame built up in his chest.
He was a terrible medical student. That's what it felt like anyway. Everyone else got it right the first time, but somehow, he kept getting singled out, and even though no one said anything directly, he could feel their stares, like knives digging into his back.
Yeah, I messed up. But was it really that bad?
Why had he even chosen to become a medical student? No—he remembered. It was the money. Doctor's salaries were high enough to claw through millions in debt, and that was all that had mattered back then.
"Lucian! Focus!"
He snapped to attention, eyes locking on Mr. Lewis again as the man demonstrated flawless CPR, and Lucian realized immediately where he went wrong. He had been pushing too deep and too fast, and in a real emergency, he could've crushed someone's chest or made it worse, and the thought alone made his stomach twist.
I have to fix this. I have to get it right.
"Try again," Mr. Lewis said. "One hundred to one-twenty compressions per minute. Keep the rhythm steady."
Lucian nodded, took a breath, and placed his hands back on the dummy's chest.
"One… two… three…"
This time, he wouldn't fail.
He couldn't afford to fail.
He wouldn't fail for—
"You're doing it wrong, again!"
"How bad can you be?"
The other students didn't even try to hide their reactions. Their faces said everything—frustration, judgment, maybe even fear—but none of it felt like pity.
Not a single person looked at him like he deserved another chance. They just stared like he was something that doesn't belong there.
He didn't get it. He really didn't. He was trying—so why wasn't it enough?
"Lucian," Mr. Lewis said, louder this time, "if you fail again, you're out of this class until next semester."
Lucian didn't argue. He just nodded and forced a smile, not because he wanted to, but because it was the only thing left he could do.
That smile wasn't confidence or pride or comfort—it was just a mask he wore so he wouldn't have to explain what was actually going on inside his head.
Because he hated this life.
This cruel, exhausting life that he never asked for, and that never gave him a chance. His parents died and left him nothing—not a will, not a savings account, not a plan—just a pile of debts, a collapsed home, and a sister who'd never make it past eighteen.
She had a heart condition. Ten years left, if they were lucky.
They called it responsibility. But it felt more like a curse.
So he pushed down again.
He didn't think about the others, or the teacher, or the glares. He just counted in his head and focused on the movement, because if he let himself think about anything else, he knew he'd fall apart.
"One… two… three…"
"Stop!"
Mr. Lewis said it, but Lucian didn't stop.
His eyes were closed, but his hands were steady, and the numbers in his mind kept going.
"Lucian!" the teacher barked again.
Still, Lucian didn't stop. He kept going, over and over, until his palms throbbed and his arms burned and he could barely feel the dummy's surface under his skin.
And then—silence.
He opened his eyes, confused, and saw Mr. Lewis standing there with his arms crossed, but not angry.
"…Nice job."
That was all he said, before turning away and speaking to the rest of the class like nothing happened.
Lucian didn't move. He just stared at the dummy, frozen in place, unsure if he actually heard that right.
Did I really get it right this time?
Did I finally match the depth, the rhythm, the pressure?
He exhaled slowly, realizing only now that he'd been holding his breath the entire time, and for the first time in weeks—maybe months—he smiled.
Not because he had to.
Because this time, he meant it.
And then, without needing to be told, he kept going.
Class ended, and Lucian walked out with his head down, notebook in hand, scribbling every mistake he could remember while the others laughed behind him like they hadn't just been one bad chest compression away from failing.
Too fast, too deep, too much pressure—he knew exactly where he messed up.
He was writing while walking, and of course, that's when it happened.
He slammed into someone—hard—enough that both their notebooks hit the floor and his pen rolled halfway down the hallway.
"Ah—damn, sorry," he said, already crouching.
She bent down too, blonde hair falling like gold under the cold fluorescent lights, sharp green eyes fixed on her scattered papers, not even sparing him a glance.
"Watch it next time," she muttered, scooped up her notes, and walked off without another word—like he wasn't even there.
He watched her leave, and hated how beautiful she was.
"Sheesh," Milo said, appearing behind him with a grin and slapping his back like the whole thing was a joke. "You just got humbled by a girl."
Lucian didn't reply. He just picked up his pen, shoved it in his pocket, and followed.
They walked the main corridor, passed lecture halls, anatomy labs, and tired faces buried in textbooks. The whole place smelled like cheap coffee, latex gloves, and exhaustion.
This was Northgate Medical University—the best place to ruin your life chasing a degree that might kill you before you earn it. It sat right in the middle of London, where the air always smelled like burnt electricity and cold rain, and where every student walked like they hadn't slept in weeks—because most of them hadn't.
They reached the cafeteria, which was packed and chaotic, like always.
Milo grabbed a tray stacked with rice, pork adobo, two energy drinks, and a pudding cup. Lucian just picked out the basics and followed him to the back corner where the noise dropped a little.
They sat down.
Milo dug in like he hadn't eaten in days.
"If Lewis shouts at me one more time, I swear I'm gonna punch him square in the face."
Lucian didn't laugh. "He wasn't wrong."
"Doesn't mean he had to treat you like a human punching bag."
"I messed up."
"And then you didn't." Milo pointed at him with his spoon. "You adjusted, you hit the rhythm, and you nailed the depth. That's what actually matters."
Lucian didn't answer. He just ate.
The rice was bland, the pork was way too salty, and the drink tasted like lemon-soaked battery acid, but it was still better than thinking.
"I just…" Lucian stared at his hands. "I can't afford to fail."
Milo went quiet. When Lucian looked up, he was watching him with that look—the one that said he understood but didn't know what to say.
"Yeah," Milo said eventually. "I get it."
And they ate in silence.
---
After class ended, Lucian went straight to the hospital, walked past the white walls and the cold scent of bleach and sickness, and there she was—his sister.
Clementine Wrenford.
She smiled at him from the bed, tubes hooked into her arms, her skin pale and weak, but she still tried to act strong. She always did that.
"Hello, big brother."
He forced a smile and stepped inside, clutching the small paper bag in his hand like it meant something.
Bread and rice. That was all he could afford today.
Two years ago, everything shattered. His father, drunk out of his mind, drove straight into a concrete barrier, took his mother with him, and left Lucian alone with Clementine.
The hospital called that night, and he stood on a bridge for hours, thinking about jumping.
He didn't.
But someone recorded it, and the video exploded.
"University Student Nearly Jumps to Death," the headlines said. The views climbed like it was entertainment. Like his life had been reduced to spectacle.
The professors saw it. The staff whispered. But nobody treated him like anything had changed.
Except Clementine. She never saw the video, and she never asked why he flinched at car horns or why his eyes were always red.
"Hello…" he muttered, sitting beside her, handing over the bag.
She opened it and ate like it was a feast. She said thank you, asked about school, and joked about becoming a doctor herself one day.
He laughed. It sounded real, even though it wasn't.
After an hour, he left the hospital and went straight to work.
The fast-food place was hot, loud, greasy, and never stopped moving. He earned five pounds an hour—barely enough for bread, barely enough for rent—and he had over twenty thousand in college debt and more than a million stacked on Clementine's fragile heart.
He worked because he had to. He studied because there was no choice. He carried this weight because no one else would.
He was a man, a brother, and a broken son. And all he wanted was for it to end.
After his shift, he walked the wet streets of London, too tired to care where his feet took him.
And that's when it happened.
A person—an actual human being—got hit by a car right in front of him.
And he froze.
He stood there, watching someone die right in front of him, and he didn't move.
He just watched.
He was tired.
So he ran.
He ran like hell—through alleys, past neon signs and shuttered shops, around crowds of people who didn't know him, who never would—until he reached his dorm, slammed the door shut, and collapsed.
He sat on the floor, alone, in silence, the world still spinning outside, and he felt everything crashing down again.
He wanted to disappear.
"Please… God, save me…"
And then he looked forward—and someone was there.
A pale boy with black hair stood in front of him. His cheeks were dotted with freckles, his arms limp at his sides, and his eyes looked empty—like he hadn't slept in days, like the world had already told him not to try.
He looked like Lucian.
And that night, Lucian didn't cry.
He just collapsed onto the bed, still in uniform and eyes open.
And they finally closed.
---
The next day, Lucian finished his classes, packed his bag, and headed straight to the hospital.
Clementine didn't hear him come in, so he leaned close and struck a dramatic pose.
"Hello! I am here! Lucian Wrenford! The hero of Azure Verse!"
She jumped, then laughed—really laughed—like she wasn't sick, like she wasn't hooked up to wires and machines and IV tubes.
"Oh! Azure Verse!"
It was her favorite show. She watched it every day, again and again. She'd memorized every episode, every line, every alien the hero defeated.
"I am here, Clementina!"
She giggled. "Luciano!"
She sometimes calls him Luciano. And he sometimes calls her Clementina.
It was their thing. A game only the two of them played.
"Haha! I am the hero that every space alien fears!"
"You'll never defeat me, alien scum!" she shouted, raising her little arms like she had the strength to punch.
For ten minutes, they weren't in a hospital.
Lucian was a superhero. Clementine was the universe he swore to protect.
But eventually, he had to leave.
He took the bus, headed to work, and stepped into hell again. The oil stank, the orders never stopped, and his feet burned from the fryer heat—but he worked his ass off like always. And when he clocked out, he only had twenty euros to show for it.
He was halfway out the door when the manager stopped him.
"Lucian." The man crossed his arms, looked him up and down, and nodded. "I'll give you two hundred."
Lucian blinked. "Huh?"
"You work hard. You don't complain. I respect that."
He didn't know what to say. So he smiled.
"Thank you."
He left with his head a little higher.
And as he walked through the freezing London streets, bag over his shoulder, sore and exhausted, something inside him stayed warm.
Today was good.
Even if deep down, he knew that happiness wouldn't last.
Lucian turned on the TV, dropped his bag to the floor, and let the silence break.
It was already 9PM, and he should've been reviewing, or resting, or doing literally anything useful, but instead, he just sat there, sinking into the chair like it could swallow him whole.
He didn't want peace. He wanted noise—something stupid, something bright,and something loud enough to bury the rest of the day.
Some comedy show played on the screen, laugh tracks firing like gunshots, while he opened his notebook, flipped through smudged pages, and gripped a pen like it was the only thing holding him together.
Compression depth, recoil timing, pressure points—he wrote each word down, again and again, like he could overwrite his own failure.
Then the signal glitched.
The screen flickered.
And the news came on.
The anchorwoman looked like she wasn't supposed to be there. Her voice shook. Her hands clenched the table. Her mouth moved, but she kept glancing off-camera like someone else should be saying this.
"T-The planet… the planet is under attack. Unknown lifeforms—monsters—aliens… They're everywhere. Please, stay inside. London is—"
He dropped his pen.
Monsters?
Aliens?
The end of the world?
He laughed.
Not because it was funny—but because, finally, something made sense. After everything—after the lectures, and the debt, and the grave, and the fucking bridge—it figured that the world would pick today to end.
Fine.
If it all burns, then maybe it's better this way.
He closed the notebook, leaned back, let his head rest against the wall, and let his eyes fall shut like he could sleep through extinction.
Then he heard it.
"London is going to get attacked!"
His eyes snapped open.
No.
No, no, no.
Clementine.
He didn't think. He just moved.
He grabbed his coat, nearly tore the door off its hinges, and ran. He didn't feel the cold or the pavement or the wind scraping across his face. He didn't stop for the lights or the sirens or the people screaming in the streets.
He didn't care about monsters or death or anything else.
He just had to reach the hospital.
He just had to save her.
"Clementine, please be safe. Please just be okay."
Lucian ran, and the streets of London broke apart around him.
People screamed, cried, pushed past each other like animals. Some held onto their kids like they were the only thing left that mattered, and others dragged them by the arms, too desperate to care how it looked.
Chaos moved like a wave, swallowing everything it touched.
But Lucian didn't stop.
Was it even worth it? Was life still something these people wanted? If only a hundred were going to survive, if this was humanity's last gasp, then maybe he should be one of the dead.
But not yet.
Not until he found her.
"Clementine!"
He pushed forward. He didn't care who screamed. He didn't care who got knocked over or shoved aside. He just kept running.
Then—he hit someone. A boy.
The kid fell hard, tripped over himself, and the stampede didn't stop. Lucian looked back just once—just long enough to see the boy's hand twitch, once, twice, then nothing.
I-I'm–
But he couldn't stop.
The hospital finally came into view.
That sterile white building with its glowing red cross high above the glass entrance like some twisted promise that everything would be fine.
People poured out of it.
Nurses, doctors, patients in wheelchairs, old men hooked to machines, kids half-conscious on gurneys. Some dragged IV poles, others screamed names, others ran without looking back.
Lucian shoved past them, yelling over the chaos. "Where's Clementine?!"
A nurse turned. She was holding a child, barely breathing, with an oxygen mask clutched to his face. Her arms looked like they might collapse.
"She's still there…"
Still there…
That was all he needed.
He ran.
"Clementine!"
Lucian ran.
He didn't stop, didn't slow, didn't breathe.
He tore down the corridor as alarms screamed from every direction, as flashing red lights spilled through the broken windows, as helicopters circled above and metal beasts flew through the smoke-choked skies—scanning rooftops with beams red as blood.
The hospital was collapsing.
The white walls cracked, the floors shook, the ceiling lights flickered like dying stars, and every single second felt like it could be the last.
Then—he saw him.
A boy.
He stood in the middle of the chaos. People ran past him—doctors, nurses, men in beds, women in wheelchairs—but no one stopped. No one saw him.
Lucian's heart clenched. His soul twisted. His mind screamed at him to stop.
But his legs didn't.
He didn't stop.
"ARGHH!!"
He kept running.
Clementine was all he had left. And if this world wanted to burn, if everything had to collapse, then so be it.
He wasn't here to be a hero. He wasn't here to save strangers. He was here for her.
Because she needed to know that when the end came—she mattered.
She needed to know someone ran through hell just to find her.
She was the only one he wanted to live for. The only one he'd die for.
He sprinted like a madman.
"ARGHHHHHHHH!"
He slammed into a nurse. She dropped the infant she was carrying. Lucian didn't stop. Another step, and he collided with a pregnant woman, she cried out.
He didn't look back.
Because time was running out.
If he had to crush the world beneath his feet just to reach her—he would.
Lucian ran.
He tore up the stairs, three at a time, pushing his body beyond its limit.
First floor, second, third—his legs burned, but he didn't stop. Fourth floor, then the fifth.
He hit the door with his shoulder, stumbled into the hallway, and froze.
The corridor was a mess—beds overturned, carts shattered, glass scattered across the floor. Ceiling tiles had fallen, the lights blinked like dying signals, and the alarms never stopped ringing.
And there—he saw her.
Clementine.
She stood small, fragile, right in the middle of the hallway.
And next to her—a man holding something long and sharp.
Lucian didn't think.
He grabbed the nearest thing—a thick book, maybe a directory or a binder, heavy enough to hurt and dense enough to kill if swung right.
The man raised the blade toward her.
Clementine didn't move. Her face was pale and her hair tangled.
"Clementine!!"
"DON'T DIE!!"
Lucian launched himself forward, dove with everything he had to the man.
He crashed into the man with full force, tackled him to the ground, and didn't hesitate.
He raised the book and slammed it down—once, twice, again—over and over against his head, his back, his shoulder.
"Clementine, hide!"
Her voice came soft behind him. "Big brother, what are you doing?"
"I—I…" He hit again. "Just run!"
He shoved Lucian off.
The man's leg came up and slammed into Lucian's ribs. He flew back, crashed onto the floor, and the air shot out of his lungs like glass breaking.
Pain exploded in his chest, his vision blurred, and the blade came next—hovering over him, ready to end everything.
"Big brother!"
Clementine's voice broke through the noise.
Lucian turned his head.
She still hadn't moved like she didn't understand what death looked like.
But he did.
And she was all he had left.
"ARGHH!!"
The blade dropped.
Lucian grabbed it by the flat edge. The steel cut deep into his hand.
Blood sprayed across his chest, soaked into his shirt, and the metal scraped bone as it slid across his ribs—but he held on.
He wrenched it off-course.
Then—he moved.
He pulled the book back with his good hand, focused every thought, every ounce of pain and rage and desperation into this one strike.
And he punched.
The book cracked straight into the man's face. A sickening crunch followed.
His head snapped back, his feet lifted off the ground, and his body launched across the hall.
He smashed into the table.
The metal legs bent, trays flipped, glass shattered, and papers exploded like confetti soaked in red.
Lucian stood.
His ribs felt broken. His hand wouldn't stop bleeding. His breath came sharp and fast, like he was drowning in air. But he stood.
Because Clementine was still here.
The man on the floor groaned, wiped the blood from his face, and looked up with furious eyes.
"How are you this strong?!"
His voice cracked.
Lucian didn't speak.
Lucian clenched his jaw, blood spilling faster with every second he held it.
The pain didn't matter. Not when Clementine was crying behind him.
The man snarled. He twisted the blade, tried to pull it free, but Lucian didn't let go.
His muscles locked, and his eyes burned with something that wasn't fear.
"You want her?" Lucian growled. "You have to go through me."
The man didn't speak.
He lunged again. But Lucian shifted his weight, turned his body, and slammed his shoulder into the man's chest.
Their feet skidded across the floor, crashing into a rolling cart. It tipped over.
Lucian kept pushing.
Another step, and another, and another—until the windows came into view behind the man.
The lights of the city blinked beyond the glass. Helicopters passed in the sky like vultures.
"Big brother, stop!" Clementine screamed.
But he didn't stop.
He only had one chance. If he failed, Clementine would die, and that would be the end of everything.
There was no one else coming. No heroes, no rescue, no miracle. Just Lucian, and the man who wanted everything destroyed.
So he pushed.
But the man was stronger—too strong—and Lucian staggered as his body gave out.
"You!"
"ARGHH!"
Lucian screamed—not in fear, not even in pain, but to drag out the last thing he had left, the last scrap of strength in his ruined body, the last drop of will that hadn't burned away.
He charged.
He slammed his shoulder forward, and he kicked. The man tripped.
His body lurched, and he stumbled back.
But not before the blade drove deep straight into Lucian's side.
It tore past flesh, muscle, bone.
And Lucian felt it. He felt everything.
He didn't stop.
She was crawling toward him. Her arms were shaking, her eyes wide and soaked with terror..
"Big brother!!"
He moved.
He grabbed the man by the coat with both hands, and he pushed.
He didn't care about the pain, or the blade still buried in his ribs, or the blood pouring down his stomach and legs.
He didn't care if he screamed, or died, or shattered on the street below.
He pushed.
The window broke.
Glass exploded outward, and the wind howled against them.
The world turned into a roar of air and gravity and falling—
And Clementine screamed.
Lucian didn't look back.
He fell.
And as they plummeted, Lucian didn't feel fear. He felt clarity. If this was what it took to protect her, then he'd do it again every time.
He hit the ground hard, and so did the man beside him. The impact forced the air from his lungs, and he couldn't move for a few seconds.
His ears rang, and his eyes refused to focus, but he could hear the other man breathing across from him.
He was still alive.
He wasn't sure if he was. He couldn't move his legs properly, and his back felt broken, and there was blood pouring out of him from every place it could.
His ribs stabbed into his body with every breath. But he had to finish it. He had to kill the man, or everything he did was for nothing.
So, he started crawling.
He didn't think. He just pushed his hands forward and dragged his body toward him.
His arms shook, and his skin scraped against the ground, and every inch felt like he was ripping himself apart. But he kept going, because if he didn't kill the man now, Clementine would still be in danger. He'd just get up and finish what he started.
He reached him.
His body was still there, twitching a little. He wasn't unconscious.
Lucian reached for the blade. It was lying beside the man, covered in blood—his and Lucian's.
He grabbed it.
His hands were slippery, but he held it tight.
He didn't care if his body was failing.
He just had to make this count.
He pulled himself over the man and sat there. His hands raised the blade. His arms shook, and his vision blurred, but he still brought it down straight to his throat.
The moment he did it, the man spoke.
"I didn't think you would be this strong, Lucian..."
Lucian froze.
What?
How did he know my name?
"Who... are... you?"
"You'll... know."
He sounded like he was smiling. Lucian didn't see it, but he could hear it in his voice, like he was proud.
Lucian couldn't do it anymore.
His body was broken. Every part of him screamed to stop, to just lie there, and let it all end. His arms shook, and his head spun, but there was no strength left to hold himself up.
If he stayed alive like this, Clementine would find him. She'd see him bleeding, dying slowly,and helpless. That was the last thing he wanted for her.
She couldn't carry that. She couldn't carry the image of him broken like this, on the edge of death and nothing more than a memory of failure.
He didn't want her to remember him like that.
So, he took the blade.
He held it again. It was warm, sticky with the blood of the unknown man.
And he drove it into himself.
Because if this was the end—then he was ending it on his own terms.
The blade went through him, straight into his vital organs. His death was certain now. There was no way back from this. No one is coming.
"The… world… is ending…" he said as his body dropped to the ground.
He looked up at the sky. It was filled with helicopters, with sky vehicles slicing through the air, with red lights blinking like silent warnings—the kind that never came early enough.
They roamed like vultures overhead, waiting for the last breath to be taken.
He closed his eyes. He was dying. This was the real thing.
Dying didn't feel like sadness, or fear, or even pain. It was different. If you asked a dead man, maybe he'd tell you. But you can't. That's the whole point.
He could still feel the warmth of his blood spilling from open wounds. He could still feel the throb in his back from the fall. And worse—he could feel the ache in his chest that had nothing to do with the body. It was the ache of knowing no one was left to protect Clementine. The ache of never seeing his sister again.
Am I dead?
When is this cycle of pain ending?
He still felt everything. The blood, the pain, and the weight in his chest.
Wasn't death supposed to be the moment everything stopped hurting? Wasn't it supposed to be quiet?
But here he was, and all he could feel was pain.
Then, it pinged.
Like a notification. Just a soft, distant chime—like something on his phone.
["A lone broken man sacrificed himself to save his precious sister."]
["A broken son sacrificed himself to save his precious sister."]
["An unknown being sacrificed himself to save his precious sister."]
[LUCIAN WRENFORD HAS BEEN GRANTED THE DEATH LOOP SYSTEM.]
[YOU MAY DIE A LIMITED NUMBER OF TIMES IN EACH LIFE. UPON YOUR FINAL DEATH, YOU WILL BE TRANSMIGRATED TO A SYSTEM-GENERATED BODY.]
[YOU HAVE BEEN GIVEN THE DEATH LOOP SYSTEM.]
The… what?
The Death Loop System?
That phrase echoed, spinning around inside his fractured mind like a coin dropped in water.
Death loop.
Death… loop.
Was he going to live and die—again and again and again?
"I can't… I can't do this…" His voice cracked inside his mind, not even a whisper now.
"I can't live and die repeatedly… I—I fear death! I FEAR DEATH!"
[YOU WILL CARRY THE PAIN THAT NO ONE ELSE REMEMBERS. YOU WILL CARRY THE DEATHS THAT NO ONE ELSE REMEMBERS.]
"No. No! I don't want this! Let me go. Let me have a moment—just a moment of peace…"
He couldn't feel his body, but he felt sadness. A crushing, infinite grief curling inside whatever part of him still was. Tears fell into the void.
[YOU HAVE A RESPONSIBILITY.]
"…Responsibility?" he repeated. "Are you kidding me?"
There it was again.
That word.
"Responsibility" had haunted him since the day his parents died. Since the day the weight of the world was shoved onto his back.
And now, even after death, when all he wanted was silence… they'd followed him. That word had followed him.
This wasn't a gift.
It was a curse.
"It's not a responsibility… It's a curse…"
[YOU WILL BE TRANSMIGRATED TO ANOTHER BODY.]
"No. No, please. I don't want this! PLEASE, LET ME DIE IN PEACE! I CAN'T— I DON'T WANT TO DO THIS AGAIN!"
[BODY SYNCING…]
"N-no! Please!" His tears came harder. They poured from eyes that no longer belonged to him. "Please… let me go… let me go…"
The grief was too big now. It could swallow everything.
"ARGHHHHH!!!"
[BODY SYNC COMPLETE.]
[REALM: SHATTERED REALM]
"No! NO! NO! NO!!"
"ARGHHHHHHH!!"
[NAME: LUCJAN WURFORD
AGE: 13
TALENT: DEATH LOOP — LIMITED RESURRECTIONS PER LIFE
PRINCIPLE: ENDURE OR DIE
TIME: 8 MONTHS BEFORE ???
LIVES: 1 / 7
MAIN QUEST: UNKNOWN
SIDE QUESTS: 0 / 5
CHECKPOINT: NOT SET
PHYSICAL: WEAK
MAGIC: STRONG
INTELLIGENCE: STRONG
SPIRITUAL ENERGY: WEAK]
[YOU WILL BE TRANSMIGRATED NOW…]