Chương 3: Every Bloody Point

LANCE did as his father asked and brought up his Heads-Up Display, or HUD, for short. His 'Primary Stat Menu' read as followed: [Name: Lance Chaucer] [Designation: Paladin of the Holy God Cannabus] [Level: 5] [Martial Prowess: 10] [Magical Prowess: 5] [Stamina: 3] [Unallocated Boon Points: 25] Lance saw his unallocated Boon Points. It took his breath away... he had felt so proud when he leveled up the first time. He remembered how awesome he felt when he put his earned Boon into his Martial Prowess.

How empowered he was when he saw the difference one point made. And now — twenty-five points! That was months of hard work he gained in an instant! He was about to read out his stats to his father when his dad, ever the resourceful man, said, "Your stats are basic."

"You can read my stat menu?" Lance couldn't believe it. No one, as far as he knew, could read another person's status menu. Not unless they were a priest with a particular blessing. Warhol shrugged.

"No. But you are a beginner. Nothing about your stats will be anything other than average. But focus, son. Your point distribution is average. You are a paladin, so you've thus far dumped your points into your Martial Prowess. That's basic advice for new initiates. Explain to me your fighting process." His father took a breath, remembering.

"Well, your fighting process when that someone that isn't out-of-your league by leagues." His father was referring to their 'battle.' He didn't want to think about their 'battle...'

"I'm pretty basic, I guess?" he told his father.

"I mean. I'm only level five, so it's not like I can do much. I can stab through their skull a standard horned beast, but that's about it. Way more than a non-System blessed guy can do."

"I remember how it felt when I first gained my System." Warhol looked to a corner of the room, wistful.

"I felt invincible. It was great. Like I was walking on wind and my name was Zepher. That's the thing, though. We're not invincible, son. Far from it..." Warhol laughed.

"Truthfully, you might be a small exception because of your healing factor. But a load of good that will do you in combat if you're staring down a psychopathic killing machine hellbent on killing those civilians around you as payback for some perceived slight." Lance's smile faded.

"As usual, dad, you're right. Listen, I get it, I know I need to use my gifts smartly. I get that! I hear what you're saying and that is why I should dump all my points into Martial Prowess? Make myself hit hard?" His father sighed.

"No. Not yet anyway. I don't want you overwhelming your body with more of a boon than it can handle at any given time. We need to space it out. That said, we don't have the luxury of time. Our terrifying foe will be on our doorstep all too soon. Within the year, if not sooner. I want you to spread your points our gradually as we grind together. Refine your fighting technique, reinforce it with points, and then fight more, see how your points change your fighting style. Think you can manage that?"

As if he had to think about it.

"I can manage, yeah. Easy."

"I'm glad you think so, because your training begins immediately." Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. WARHOL considered where to take his son. Lance was still so weak. Remarkable healing factor or no, their experience — both literal in terms of the system and more abstract in terms of field outings — were so limited. It would be best to take him somewhere tame.

"Follow me," he told his son as he turned to leave The Grotto. With Lance following in his wake, they left his, now their, secret hideout. A reality he never thought would happen. They emerged from their base, back into their basement. He then led his son back upstairs and out of the house. Lance already had his gear — padded leather armors and an unremarkable sword — so they did not need to stop for an armament session.

He looked a lot like he had years ago when he waited for the morning carriage on his first day at the academy. He smiled reufeully. How time flew! Outside was a perfect early spring day. Remnants of winter clung to the air as splotches of grass poked through the muddy and partially melted snow. Their home, a three storied hut, looked in need of a full makeover, but as it was head and shoulders above the other in-ground pit homes in the nearby town. Warhol pushed the repairs to another date.

If the world survived The Horror, maybe he would invest in them then. Big if.

"Take my hand," he told his son. Lance appeared reluctant but did so. Was it a misplaced masculinity that caused his son caution in touching him? Or was it memory of how that hand had ripped him apart, piecemeal, but just two short years ago? Warhol activated [Union], then [Flight]. They both shot into the air. A couple of birds squawked at their sudden intrusion into their airy realm but flapped away.

He was tempted to incant [Animal Speaking] and apologize to the animals, but training called, not frolicking with birds like a fairy tale princess. Next to him, Lance shrieked gleefully. Or perhaps in terror. It was hard to say which. Most people did one or the other the first time he took them on a superpowered flight. Warhol next activated [Invisible]. He didn't need peasants with strange ideas seeing him, the 'Reborn Decimator' storming through the skies.

Such a headache that would be if some pissant dragon corps officier got on their tail and started asking questions. For many years, Warhol needed to use his [Locate] spell to find exact locales close to him. After many years of grinding, such wasn't any longer the case. He could find just about any location on his home continent without trouble. Places on other continents? That was a little trickier.

They flew through the air for many hours; during which, the spectacle of flight had worn away in his son, replaced by a general irritation at being so long in the air without an idea of where they were going.

"Couldn't you have teleported us?" his son groaned.

"I could have, yes, but then you would've missed the incredible view!" Warhol didn't want to admit he hadn't teleported them because he simply forgot. Lately, he had taken to flying around. Mostly out of boredom, but also out of a desire to get away from the world and its messiness. If he teleported, he was somewhere instantly. If he flew, he had time to himself to think and reflect on existence. Warhol took Lance to a place off the coast. From the sky, it looked like any other island.

On the ground, it was anything but.

"This is Murder Island. And for the next few days, or weeks, this will be what you breath, eat, and sleep." Lance's mouth dropped open.

"I've heard of this place, dad... my instructor at the academy was terrified of this place, said he lost friends, here." Warhol made a face.

"Yes. Its reputation is well earned, among the plebians. Son, how can I explain this? In life's grand theatre, you and I are not seated on the ground floor. We are the elites, the very important people! Or we're the managers. Take your pick. My point is that you will 'manage' this island until you've purified it of all evildoing, overly monologuing filth. I will remain in the sky, observing your every move. I will offer advice every so often.

If need be, I will intervene if you should encounter a foe beyond your capabilities. We are here to power level you until you are death incarnate, until every bloody Boon Point is in your pocket. Or at least until you seem that way to the local rabble." He knew his son had a lot of emotions going through him, the utmost of which was doubt.

Warhol knew that doubt himself, once, many years ago, so he also knew without any doubt that once this crucible ended, Lance would bear doubt the hostility it deserved — as a foe worthy only of death!

"I believe in you son, good luck!" Warhol shot into the air and left his son be; now was his son as the bird falling from the nest. Lance would either fly to self-assurance or fall to his death. Only time would tell which.