A brown bottle rolled to my feet like life rolling me student loan notifications and urges to fap.

The bottle came from the guards.

Obviously empty—just like my future and my testicles after hitting six times a day—and the guard must've passed out mid-chug, because the drunk opera they were performing in their sleep suddenly went silent.

I peeked my head out like toes from a ripped sock.

As expected—three guards, snoring like buffaloes with sleep apnea and anal beads.

I picked up the bottle, snapped it in half as silently as a disappointment in an Indian family, and made myself a DIY murder utensil. Martha Stewart but for homicide.

Even if I made noise, they wouldn't hear it—they were spiritually vacationing on Saturn. I can rail their wives beside them and they wouldn't know it.

Weapon ready, I tiptoed towards them like a cat on a fashion runway—elegant, deadly, and probably hungry.

They slept next to each other, cuddled against the wooden door like three demonic Teletubbies.

Legs sprawled. Orange skin. Two horns each.

Probably brothers. Not Probably. Definitely brothers.

For a second my moral compass tried to wake up like "wait, are we about to orphan someone's parents?"

But then I remembered—war with Malthus is coming. They'd die anyway.

Better now than when I'm not emotionally ready.

I swallowed guilt like cheap whiskey and expensive sparkling water and picked the guard on the far right.

Their skin was thicker than a thot's thighs and skull, so glass wouldn't do much if they were awake.

But unconscious?

Ah yes, my favorite mode—"free kill."

I knelt like a priest in front of a school. Examined his body like a doctor in the Vietnam war.

Only one weak point stood out.

The throat.

Soft. Wide. Inviting.

Like a fresh watermelon at a psychopath's picnic. Like a woman sleeping with her mouth wide open.

Yeah. That will do.

Bottle aimed.

My hand shook like a WhatsApp addict with 3% battery.

I didn't want to miss—I wouldn't get a second try.

I half-closed my eyes like the average hard-working sloth. I didn't want to see the gore—just like I mute group chats after sending a risky meme.

I raised the bottle, took a deep breath and…

PLUCK!

Stabbed the throat of the guard. Like opening a Coke can from hell.

Blood shot out of his mouth and throat like a malfunctioning ketchup bottle.

His eyes flew open—the "I regret waking up today" edition.

I didn't wait. I ran faster than a man hearing "Son, I want to check your phone."

I hid behind a wall like a misogynist hide behind a fat feminist.

He clutched at the air, like a man trying to catch his ex's last apology.

His hands slapped the other two guards like I slap women who slap me first.

But they didn't even twitch.

Sleep > friendships.

No words came out—his throat was now a jacuzzi.

I watched with one eye, peeking like a kid during a horror movie.

Horny Eyes skill? Deactivated. Not trying to thirst over murder.

He flailed. Choked. Then stopped completely.

He was dead.

[ Ding! ]

[ Congratulations! You killed one guard of Malthus! ]

[ You got One Skill and 100 Exp! ]

'Don't say congratulations, man. He didn't die like a warrior. I killed him like a Wi-Fi signal—silently and from behind. I'm ashamed. If I were strong, I'd challenge him to a duel, not give him a surprise neck ventilator. I just killed someone's brother in the coward's DLC mode.'

I stood up and walked towards the back door like Ethan Hunt on a budget.

The system shut up—finally understanding this wasn't a meme moment.

I'm a comedian—I joke about everything, even thick women climbing stairs—but right now?

I just murdered someone's brother while he was dreaming about kebabs or simply symmetrical boobs.

Yeah, I've killed before, but back then I was the Hero King—Buffed, loved, less horny, sponsored by destiny.

Now?

I'm a weak NPC speed-running guilt.

[ Then become strong. ]

'I know. I will. I'll become Hero King again—so I never feel like this weak trash again.'

[ Finally. You sound like a man. ]

'Why is there still no heroine in my life, though?'

[ Son of a bitch. ]

'What? Heroes need heroines. It's in the contract.'

[ No one cares about you. So no one definitely doesn't give a fuck about the heroine. People stopped caring about you from the first five chapters—months. I mean months. ]

'Yeah. I agree. No wonder the pacing suddenly became fast and I am suddenly undergoing my character development arc.'

[ Alright. Enough wall breaking. Come back. ]

'Yes. Training it is. For five years. I will give my all. This will be my routine for five years straight. Just keep the Skills coming.'

[ Let's both do our best. ]

'Sure thing.'

I stopped talking and the system also went silent like a feminist after knowing equality doesn't mean superiority.

The people who had gone to hunt were also coming back and they were all smiles as if they were coming from a brothel. They managed to hunt their food and the humans and aliens became friends as well. This is good.

And just as I was watching them…

[ Ding! ]

The system chimed in like a side character fighting for the screentime.

[ Today's Training Completed! ]

[ Congratulations. You got a Skill! ]

'I see. So all my allies successfully got the food. I hope this keeps on happening daily without fail.'

I saw Erect and Sexis coming and I waved at them like a turtle after seeing a snail.

They waved back.

My right-hand man and… whatever the hell Sexis is.

Still—my friends.

This world gave me what Earth never did—friends.

I like this world.

So I'll protect it. From Malthus. From ruin. From eradication of porn. From whatever the hell he wants to do with this planet's core.

The core of this world… is my people.

My friends.

He won't touch them.

I'll get stronger.

Stronger than regret. Stronger than guilt.

Stronges Trum will make me the Strongest.

———

After five years.

…

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