The System was finally ready to distribute Skills.

Four thousand six hundred and sixty Skills. Yes. 4-6-6-0. At this point, I'm less of a human and more of a walking software update. If I sneeze too hard, I might accidentally unlock Windows 12.

It's a serious condition. My body now generates pop-up ads for cheap VPNs, and my immune system is exclusively powered by whatever ancient, dusty code allows a 2005 screensaver to run on a modern gaming PC. I might need a patch soon. (Just kidding)

But I wasn't alone. I had around a thousand allies—prisoners, aliens, depressed gym bros—and they all needed Skills too. So like a generous warlord Santa Claus, I just said:

'System, distribute the Skills however you want. You've probably memorized all of them while I was busy doing push-ups and regretting my life.'

[ Distributing Skills… ]

Great. And of course, the System was processing it with the speed of Internet Explorer after getting stabbed. The progress bar was less a bar and more a single pixel that occasionally flickered just to mock the concept of forward momentum.

I could practically hear the dial-up modem shrieking a curse in binary as it struggled to parse the concept of 'four-thousand-six-hundred-and-sixty'. Meanwhile, my attention was split between the System, my thoughts, and Stronges—because apparently, I've achieved Ultra Instinct in multitasking.

Stronges was still talking passionately about how proud she was of us. And respectfully? She earned the right to brag. She turned a bunch of half-starved prisoners into war criminals with abs.

Seriously, if you ran a background check on any of us, the FBI would just close the file and apply for early retirement. They went from 'malnourished' to 'managed to perfect the art of the tactical chokehold while doing a plank'.

But suddenly—her smile disappeared like my father when the electricity bill arrived.

"My students!"

"Yes!" we responded like a cult.

"You all did great. You passed my training. Don't you dare think any of you are weak. You can now solo a Nano-Bot on impossible mode—so if you lose a fight in the future, that's just a skill issue."

Facts. Nano-Bots weren't trainers. They were chrome cockroaches built by Satan, powered by caffeine and sarcasm.

"But," she continued, serious now, "in battle each of you has a different role. And every role… involves murder. Now listen carefully—"

We shut up like someone pressed mute on our souls.

"I am going to give each of you a weapon."

Finally.

I've waited for this moment longer than anime fans wait for their favorite manga to update after a hiatus. Stronges promised she'd forge us weapons at the end of training. And if anyone could do it—it was her. I've seen her fight robots like she was speedrunning God of War on maximum difficulty.

Honestly, I believe if she was awake when Malthus invaded this place, she would've yeeted him out of the atmosphere. But yeah, fate said no.

No point crying over spilled milk—or in our case, spilled planets.

She continued, her voice proud and deadly:

"I made all your weapons. Tailor-made. Forged from the sharpest steel found in the mountains of the Cuckwell Continent. I don't care that the Red Mass renamed it—I still call it Cuckwell. Anyway, all weapons are in the second room. Names are written on them. Go get yours."

We didn't even wait. If she told us to sprint into hell, we would've asked, "Clockwise or anti-clockwise?"

The basement had multiple doors. Sexis' mom had numbered them when I requested it—because navigating without labels made me feel like a rat in IKEA.

We had beds now… just kidding. For five straight years, we slept on stone floors so hard our buttcheeks evolved muscle memory and six-pack glutes. Spartan life.

Room number two… was heaven.

Weapons. Hundreds. Swords, axes, spears, guns, weird alien blades that looked like they were made to stab both bodies and souls. There were war hammers that looked like they could solve complex physics problems just by being swung, shurikens so sharp they probably left emotional scars, and a battle-flute that, I'm pretty sure, only played the theme song from a terrible 90s cartoon about existential dread. It was art. I didn't even know half their names, but I knew one thing—they were sexy and deadly. Just like taxes.

Sexis' mom forged these. Probably every night when we were snoring like congested tractors. She sacrificed sleep, blood, and sanity. She truly was a mother and a blacksmith combined. A blacksmother.

I swore I would use her creations well. I won't let her sacrifices go to waste. I've never had a real mother—but if moms handed out handcrafted murder tools, I'd accept adoption.

Each weapon was wrapped in black cloth, a yellow tag stuck on it, with the owner's name written in red ink—like Santa, if Santa was an arms dealer.

Everyone spread out, picking up name tags. We found weapons for others and tossed them to their rightful owners.

"Whoever got their weapon, leave the room! You're blocking my oxygen!" I yelled.

They did. Mostly because I could kill them.

But my weapon? Nowhere. My hands were empty. My soul was anxious.

Did she forget me? Did I get a stick? A butter knife? A toothpick labeled 'best of luck, idiot'?

People left. Soon only a few remained—me, Sexis, and Erect. Those two idiots—my idiots—searched harder than my relatives searching for flaws in my life choices.

They didn't even unwrap their own weapons yet. They said they wouldn't open theirs until I found mine. I pretended to scoff, but internally… if I had tear ducts left, I would've cried.

Only five aliens were left in the room now. In the corner, a mountain of weapons.

We walked toward it. One by one, the last weapons were claimed… until only one item lay on the ground.

Long. Wrapped. Mysterious.

I picked it up.

My heart did a cartwheel and landed in a split.

The name on the cover read:

"The Hero King."

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