Ace clicked on his first passive skill.
[Brawler (I) — Unarmed punches deal +15% damage, and each strike hurts your hands 25% less.]
The description was short and clear. No explanation needed.
His punches now hit harder, and his hands would last longer in a fight. He could already battle longer than most. And with work and XP, the skill could level up.
This will help if I ever lose my weapons.
He hated the apocalypse, but he loved leveling up. Every boost felt like a reward, and he pushed each skill to its limit.
He wanted to kick back for the day, yet the chance to stack passive skills before doomsday drove him to act.
He opened his laptop and started a new note.
I don’t know how many passive slots I get, so I’d better choose right.
His plan was simple. Follow the route from his first life.
He would hit the same gate, use future knowledge, and snowball an early lead.
The monsters inside meant fists alone were no good. He needed weapon skills.
Spear, daggers, and a bow—that’s my kit. A spear keeps undead at a distance. Daggers work in tight rooms and back me up if I drop the spear. A bow reaches the farthest and lets me pick things off from cover.
After jotting that down and googling local ranges, Ace moved on.
I can grind attack speed with Brawler—just keep punching faster. Crit damage will be tougher, but doable. Awareness comes once I spar. If I sprint hard enough, I should unlock a movement perk.
That’s the list for now.
He memorized the dojo’s address, packed up, and slid the laptop under the bed.
He shut the door and jogged out of the building, hoping the system would hand him a sprint perk.
Outside, more thugs milled around.
One squatted Slavic‑style, icing his nose. His eyes lit up when he spotted Ace.
"It’s that bastard!" he yelled.
The others cracked their knuckles and stalked over. Sunlight bounced off their shaved heads, their mouths curled into typical thug smiles. Ace kept a straight face, though they annoyed him.
"I busted my ass getting cash for your buddy. Why’s he still here? Don’t tell me he’s got no damn insurance," Ace said.
Street thugs often broke bones for payout scams.
The group looked at their injured friend.
"He’s right," one said.
"Why are you still here?" another asked.
The bruised guy awkwardly stared at the ground.
"I blew my allowance on cigs and beer. Missed my premium, so they canceled it."
"Idiot! You start fights with no insurance?" a thug barked.
"Still, we’re not letting some rat push you around!"
They turned back, but Ace had vanished.
"There!" one shouted.
Ace tore down the sidewalk.
"He’s fast as a rat! Get him!"
"Bro, you ever seen a rat?"
"Yeah—basement once. I ran even faster than that... I mean the rat did!"
Ace kept his breathing steady and eyed the screen floating before him.
[You have obtained Sprinter’s Stride (I)]
[Sprinter’s Stride (I) — Each second you stay in a full sprint, your speed ticks up, giving you a small but steady boost until you stop.]
"Stop, rat! Stop!" they yelled.
"He’s speeding up, bro!"
Soon the thugs doubled over, gasping like they’d run a marathon. Sweat dripped off tomato‑red faces.
Ace kept going, leaving them in the dust.
Before long, Ace stood outside the dojo he’d found online. It was close to home and offered a free trial—couldn’t ask for more.
He twisted the knob and stepped in. A small bell dinged overhead, letting the owner know someone had walked in.
A man in his early forties leaned around the corner. He wore a white gi with a black belt. It looked like pure karate, yet the place taught all kinds of styles.
"Fresh blood to spill," the man said with a grin.
"Dad, quit scaring new clients!" someone snapped.
A wooden sword smacked the man’s head. The wielder—a woman in her early twenties—faced Ace and smiled. She was the owner’s daughter.
"Welcome! Interested in martial arts?" she asked.
Ace met her eyes, memories from his first life flooding back.