Reven sat in the corner of an empty alley, knees to his chest, the stench of the city's gutter thick in his lungs.
He hadn't moved since he was thrown back into the city outskirts. NPCs ignored him. Players walked past without a second glance.
The system didn't forget him, though.
A red prompt hovered over his HUD like a curse:
---
> [Mission 001: Kill a Player – Level ≥ 50]
Reward: +10 Random Stat Points
Time Limit: 24:00:00
Penalty: Pain Sync Increase + Stat Regression + Memory Instability
> [Timer: 23:58:27]
---
Reven's stomach twisted.
> "A level 50 player… in a day?" he muttered, eyes wide.
No skills. No class. No items worth stealing.
He wasn't even sure he could take down a dog in this world.
A small flicker appeared next to the mission panel:
---
> [Tip: Stronger players may be vulnerable when distracted, overconfident, or alone.]
[Disclaimer: Exploiting social mechanics may result in unpredictable system response.]
---
He clenched his teeth.
This wasn't a game anymore. It was a hunt.
---
Reven stood, body still aching from training, and headed toward the mercenary yard he'd seen before. If he had one day, he'd make every second bleed.
The same old NPC stood by the gate — arms crossed, face like a cracked boulder.
> "Back already? Didn't break last time, huh?"
Reven dropped his last few coins on the table. The instructor glanced down, then shoved a rusted pair of brass knuckles into his hand.
> [Item Acquired: Scrap Knuckles (+1 STR, -10% Movement)]
Durability: [8/20]
> "You've got two hours," the NPC grunted. "Try not to die before you kill."
---
The training was brutal.
He punched dummies until his fingers bled through the rusted metal.
He lifted stone blocks until his shoulders screamed.
And when the instructor laughed and told him to run laps dragging weights, he ran until he threw up behind the forge.
---
> [Strength +0.6]
[Endurance +0.5]
[Pain Resistance: Developing…]
[Timer: 21:23:14]
---
The boost wasn't much. But it was enough to keep him from collapsing.
By sundown, Reven had only one thing in mind: find a target.
He needed a Level 50. Not a mob. Not an NPC.
A player.
---
The city plaza glowed with runes and system lights. Top-ranked players strutted in enchanted armor, tossing coins to street performers, bartering for rare potions and gem upgrades.
Reven scanned every nametag.
Lv. 32 – Beastclaw Hunter
Lv. 44 – Crystal Monk
Lv. 19 – Gacha Caster
Then he saw him.
Lv. 53 – "GoldLord"
Tank build. Huge sword. Laughing with two friends.
He wore premium gear and a smug face. Reven recognized the name.
> "PvP guild leader. Makes content off killing low-level players for fun…"
He clenched his fists.
This was the kind of guy who wouldn't suspect a thing from a no-name like him.
---
> [Timer: 19:12:00]
---
Reven followed them at a distance through side alleys and rooftops, hiding behind crates, slipping between gaps in buildings.
Eventually, the three moved toward the southern gate — to a low-PvP zone where the system had weaker guard enforcement.
Bingo.
---
One of the friends split off. The second stopped for a vendor.
And then GoldLord was alone, scrolling through his inventory — gear glowing around him like a neon fortress.
Reven's hands shook.
He was barely level 6. His fists were wrapped in rusty metal. The guy in front of him could probably kill him by blinking too hard.
But the timer didn't care.
The mission didn't care.
---
> [Pain Sync: 12% → 14%]
[Muscle strain spreading to limbs]
[Warning: Mental clarity decreasing.]
---
He stepped forward.
No plan.
No skills.
Just timing.
One wrong move, and the mission would fail — or worse, he'd lose more than stats.
But if he landed a single hit...
If he caught him off guard...
---
> [Timer: 18:57:46]
[Mission Active.]
Reven breathed in.
His knuckles cracked.
---
To be continued.