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The notifications kept ringing in Malik's head, one after the other, cold and mechanical, like some background voice that no longer belonged to his reality. Right now, there was only one thing that truly existed:
Pain.
It wrapped around him, tore through him, swallowed his mind whole.
It felt as if his bones were being shattered and melted at the same time. Like every inch of his flesh was being boiled alive, stripped from his skeleton, ground and reforged over and over. His screams split the air, sharp and raw, but no one answered. The golden light at the center of his chest burned brighter with every second, stretching its tendrils through his veins, trying to conquer his entire being.
Minutes? Hours? He couldn't tell. Time no longer existed in this hell. Only the agony and the golden light.
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"Aargh!" His voice broke again as another wave of pain tore through his skull, sharp and blinding, as if his mind itself was being ripped apart.
His body rose off the ground, the golden light lifting him like a puppet on invisible strings. His limbs twisted, bent, reshaped. The sound of bones clicking, snapping, and rearranging filled the air as his body spun, moving in ways no human body ever should.
And then, silence.
The golden light faded, and Malik crashed back to the ground. The soil caved beneath him. His chest heaved, his bare skin covered in sweat and dried blood. His clothes had been ripped to shreds, only his black pants barely holding together.
And yet — not a single wound remained on his body. No cuts. No bruises. No pain.
Only strength.
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The notifications filled his mind, but this time he wasn't frozen by confusion. His eyes snapped open, sharp and steady, unlike the dim, tired gaze he once carried.
His body felt... alive. More alive than ever. Even at Level 0, his senses burned with strength. The weakness he had always known was gone.
Slowly, he stood up, flexing his fingers, testing his limbs, his breath steady and strong. Not a trace of injury.
"I've... broken through the Mortal Shackles. I've become a Cultivator," he repeated under his breath, as if the words alone were too foreign to believe.
A bitter smile tugged at the corner of his lips as the silence pressed around him. The battlefield, the memory of Qing'er, the pain, the helplessness — all of it still burned inside, but now wrapped under this new, unfamiliar strength.
His thoughts wandered.
"That stone... her heart. Was that the reason I became this? A Cultivator? In a game world?"
His gaze sharpened.
"Those NPCs... they weren't using gear. They weren't fighting like normal players. Could they have been... Cultivators too?" The thought chilled and intrigued him at the same time.
Questions with no answers. Not now.
Once I log out, I'll ask. For now... I have to leave this place.
And so he moved. Running, sprinting, the wind breaking around him, his body cutting through the air like a blade. Faster than he had ever moved in his life.
'Is it just me... or have I really become stronger?' His mind spun as he pulled up the system status page.
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[Player Status]
Name: Malik
Class: Cultivator
Stage: Half-Step Body Refinement Realm
Level: 0
HP: 220/220
MP: ?ERROR?
EXP: ?[.....]?
[Attributes]
STRENGTH: 20
AGILITY: 20
ENDURANCE: 20
INTELLIGENCE: 15
[Skill Bar]
?? ??
Physique: Primordial Chaos Physique
---
His jaw tightened. His whole status had shifted. His class, his stats, even his skills — unknown, hidden. This wasn't a simple game mechanic anymore. This was something else entirely.
"I really... became a Cultivator," he whispered, staring at his hands, still half expecting them to tremble. But they didn't. Only strength remained.
His mind drifted to an old question: Does that mean... I can cultivate? Like those stories? Like those novels?
He almost laughed, the thought too ridiculous, too strange, yet so real.
The sound of rustling leaves snapped him back to focus. His instincts sharpened — more reactive, more sensitive than ever before.
From the treeline, four beasts emerged, surrounding him. Their yellow eyes gleamed with hunger.
Three were Level 2, one Level 3. More than enough to end the old Malik without a second thought.
But the old Malik was gone.
One of the beasts leaped from the blind spot, its claws slicing through the air, aimed for his neck.
But Malik had seen it coming. Long before the beast moved, his instincts had already mapped the attack.
His body shifted, side-stepping cleanly, the beast's claws grazing past him, missing his throat by inches. The force of its failed attack pulled it forward — exposed.
Malik's fist moved. A simple, casual punch. Nothing fancy. Nothing desperate.
His knuckles connected with the beast's stomach, and the creature was sent flying, crashing into the others, its HP bar sliced in half.
Malik stood there, his hand still raised, staring at his own fist, a slow smile curling across his face.
"That was... just a casual punch."
The remaining beasts roared, lunging toward him, their eyes wild with rage.
Malik didn't flinch.
He lowered his stance, fists tightening, his eyes cold, his expression sharp. The look of a predator.
It was no longer the prey that stood here.