Yeah.

I am overpowered again.

Shocking, I know. Somewhere in the sky, God is probably uninstalling me like malware.

And because I'm a responsible menace to society, I was flexing my system as usual.

'System. Calculate all the Skills I have.'

Yes, I know. Five years of grinding, murder, emotional trauma, eating leaves like a goat with depression—and still, I haven't checked a single damn Skill I earned. People would probably ask:

"Bro, if you never saw your Skills, then how the f*ck were you killing guards every day and hunting food like a battle-ready Tarzan?"

Answer?

Training. Pure, sadistic, soul-shattering, grandma-approved training.

My strength, speed, reflexes, IQ, emotional damage resistance—all went from "wet tissue paper" to "this man can fold steel with his eyelashes."

After two months of training, I wasn't a boy anymore. I was becoming a full-time problem for society. My body was changing faster than anime fans' loyalty when a new waifu appears.

Earlier, I hunted like a coward—set traps, throw rocks, pray to all gods including the WiFi router. But once I actually felt power in my muscles?

I stopped being a sneaky rat and started murdering with confidence. Like a warrior. Like a psychopath with a schedule.

My first kill as a warrior was so easy, I thought I was cheating. Why?

Because I trained with nano-bots—robotic torture instructors programmed by Satan himself. Their "easy mode" was still 100 times stronger than Malthus' guards.

Imagine fighting a Terminator for breakfast and then casually killing a security guard for lunch. That was my life.

The nano-bots, I should mention, looked like chrome-plated nightmares with too many flickering red and yellow lights and a truly insulting voice synthesizer. They didn't just train you; they offered existential commentary on your form. 'Your lunge is an embarrassment to sentient life,' one of them would chirp in a voice like a bored GPS. 'Your footwork suggests you were raised by a family of particularly clumsy squirrels.'

It was the kind of demoralizing verbal abuse that either breaks a man or forges him into a diamond made of spite. I chose spite. It was cheaper than therapy.

The 'easy mode' wasn't just physical; it was a psychological endurance test. You'd be dodging plasma fire, and the System would whisper in your mind, 'Did you remember that girl who called you shit back on earth?' just to mess with your concentration.

So, yes, when I finally ran a sword through a real Malthus guard, the poor guy looked less like a fearsome enemy and more like a training dummy that forgot to move. It felt less like a battle and more like returning a library book that was five years overdue. The difficulty was simply nonexistent. That ease was the proof—the sweet, bloody, undeniable proof—that five years of sheer hell had paid off.

After that first kill, something inside me changed. My spine straightened. My ego got WiFi. I stood up like a man who pays taxes. It was a good feeling, the kind that makes you want to spontaneously invent a victory dance.

I became obsessed—with strength, with training, with improvement. I started enjoying watching my muscles grow like illegal plants under a UV lamp.

I didn't need Skills. I didn't even check them. I was vibing with raw power.

But now?

Now it's time to open Pandora's Skill Box, because

Malthus isn't going to die just because I scream louder than him.

He has magic. Skills. Drama.

So I need those too.

But I couldn't just think about myself.

My allies—prisoners, aliens, emotionally damaged weirdos—they trained beside me every day. They deserved skills too. Even if half of them still cry when they see vegetables.

So I said:

'System, give my allies the Skills you think they need. They trained hard. I've got more than enough to share, right?'

[ Yes. I will calculate in front of you. ]

'Good. Because I failed chemistry. I can't calculate for sh*t.'

[ Chemistry has nothing to do with calculation. What are you talking about? ]

'I meant my chemistry with my maths teacher. That was bad. That's why I suck at calculating.'

[ …Sometimes I forget you're a warrior and not a fungus. ]

Meditation has made me calm now. My mind was clearer than my search history. I could control my emotions. I felt like a monk—if monks also committed homicide.

System continued:

[ When you made Jack your ally, you triggered a special quest. The quest said that after Jack, every new ally you make will grant you a Skill. You then befriended 800 prisoners. So… 800 Skills. ]

'Yeah. I know that. Continue before I die of old age.'

[ After the prisoners, you also befriended over 1,000 aliens in this basement—including Stronges. That's 1,000+ more Skills. ]

I nodded. Internally I was like, "Holy sh*t, I'm basically a Skill factory at this point."

[ Moving on. First Quest: "Become Strong." You obey Stronges, train daily, never miss a day—reward is 1 Skill every single day. ]

[ Let's calculate. One year = 366 days (because leap years exist to annoy math-hating people). Multiply by 5. Total = 1,830 days. You got 1 Skill per day. So… 1,830 Skills. ]

'Cool. If school taught math like this, I would've passed.'

[ Second Quest: "Side Gig." Kill one Malthus guard daily. Reward = 1 Skill + 100 EXP. And you did it. Every. Single. Day. For. Five. Years. ]

[ That's another 1,830 Skills. And tons of EXP. You're now Level 99. Unofficially classified as a natural disaster. ]

I nodded like an old man who's seen too much.

'I don't care about levels. I only care about killing Malthus. My grandma is getting older. I want her to see me alive, not just my funeral poster floating in the wind.'

[ You've grown. I'm proud. ]

'Yeah. I've been abstaining for five years. Of course I grew.'

[ …I didn't mean that grew. But okay. ]

Then system dropped the bomb:

[ Total Skills accumulated over five years: 4,666. In other words, 4-6-6-6. Demonic symmetry. ]

'Nice. Even my Skill count looks like Satan's phone number.'

[ I will now distribute them. All at once. Try not to explode. ]

My heart beat calmly. My mind was steady.

Five years of pain.

Five years of blood.

Five years of mentally arguing with leaves during meditation.

Now it was time.

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