Harold had always felt like an underscore in a world written in bold. Plain name, plain face, plain life. He wasn't clumsy, wasn't stupid, but his internal clock seemed to tick to a different rhythm than everyone else. While the world moved in predictable beats of routine and expectation, Harold's mind darted and flickered, restless and unaligned. Purpose? It felt like a word meant for other people, the ones whose tune matched the orchestra. He was just… static.
Then, the snap.
The familiar hum of his PC vanished, replaced by the bone-deep chill of damp rock and the growl of something massive. He landed awkwardly on a cold, wet floor. Visually, the transition was jarring – one moment his mundane room, the next, a colossal chamber echoing with malevolence. It was undoubtedly a dungeon, vast, ancient, radiating a pressure that settled in his chest. Deepest level, high rank – his brain supplied the grim details with detached clarity.
A cold, clear voice, not his own, echoed in his mind. System Notification: Welcome to World: Obelus. Location: Dungeon #7, Abyssal Floor.
Surprise, pure and absolute, stole his breath. He was in Obelus? In a dungeon? On the Abyssal Floor? Then, a strange, unexpected surge of happiness. This was not the expected tune.
Talent Acquired: Gravity Control (Small).
A flicker of joy at the thought of power, instantly deflated by the dampening word: (Small). Disappointment, familiar and heavy, settled like a cloak. Of course. Even his fantasy power was underwhelming.
His thoughts were cut short by a ground-shaking roar. A giant, grotesque ogre, fifteen feet of muscle and rage, charged from the shadows, swinging a tree-trunk of a club. There was no time to despair about 'Small'.
His new talent wasn't just a concept; it was a lens. The world shifted. The ogre remained a mass of imposing darkness, but the air around its club, specifically a point near its head, shimmered with a faint, persistent light. It wasn't just the center of mass; it was the anchor of its weight, visible only to him. Intrigue, sharp and survival-driven, replaced disappointment.
He had seconds. The club was coming. He instinctively thrust a hand towards the accelerating light. Pull.
He felt a subtle resistance, a mental tug. The light dimmed slightly, and the club – impossibly – became lighter. The ogre, expecting the weapon's immense inertia, overswung wildly, momentum throwing it off balance. It staggered, then crashed into the wall, momentarily pinned by the lightened club. A jolt of pure, unadulterated exaltation shot through Harold. Small didn't mean useless. It meant precise.
He didn't hesitate. Adaptation was his rhythm. He dashed towards the dazed ogre. The club was still pinned, glowing faintly. He didn't need to lift it. Seeing the light of the ogre's skull, he focused. Push. A subtle force, centered on the ogre's head, repelling it infinitesimally from the ground, just enough to disrupt its bracing. Then, focusing on the ogre's feet, Push again, making the very stone beneath it slightly repulsive. The ogre's massive form strained, its grip loosening on the club as it tried to find purchase on the suddenly uncooperative floor.
Seeing the opening, Harold pulled himself forward, lowering his own weight slightly with a focused thought – his own center of mass glowed briefly. He snatched a jagged rock from the floor, its tiny light clear to his new sight. Pull the rock, bringing it to his hand. Push its weight, making it virtually weightless. He vaulted onto the ogre's chest, a feat made possible by his lightened form, and brought the weightless rock down with surprising force against the ogre's temple, repeatedly, focusing a micro-burst of gravity into the rock with each strike, turning the pebble into a miniature, skull-shattering hammer. The ogre slumped, defeated not by raw power, but by imaginative, leveraged application of 'Small'. Exhilaration roared in his ears, louder than the ogre's last gasp. He, Harold, the underscore, had beaten the impossible.
A pulsating crystal lay embedded in the ogre's skull. He touched it. A wave of energy, a sense of growth. Gravity Control (Small) - Progress: 8%. This was the system. This was the reward. This was a tune his rhythm could finally dance to. His scattered moods settled into a sharp, focused determination, electric with purpose.
Leaving the boss room, the passage upwards was less grand, but the air felt lighter, charged with possibility. Harold began his climb through Dungeon #7.
The ascent was a workshop for his ingenuity. The dungeon levels, while still dangerous, threw challenges at him that the ogre hadn't. Swarms of skittering creatures? He learned to create localized heavy spots on the floor, like invisible potholes, tripping them up as they charged, making them easy targets. Armored sentinels? He'd subtly attract their heavy shields down, forcing them to fight off-balance, or momentarily increase their own weight, slowing their swings to a crawl. Flying bat-like creatures? He'd briefly increase their density mid-flight, causing them to plummet within range of a well-aimed, gravity-amplified stone.
He experimented constantly. Making himself lighter wasn't just for jumping; he could dodge faster, flow around attacks. Making himself heavier allowed him to brace against powerful blows or add unexpected force to a kick. He practiced attracting small objects – keys from hooks, levers out of reach, even pulling the bolts from a crossbow mid-shot (though that took intense focus). He learned to see the subtle shifts in the 'light' around enemies, anticipating their movements.
His moods were a whirlwind – the frustration of a failed attempt quickly giving way to intense focus as he analyzed the failure, then triumphant satisfaction when a new, creative solution worked perfectly. This constant cycle of challenge, adaptation, and reward felt exhilaratingly right. It was the tune his scattered mind had been searching for. He, Harold, the nobody, was thriving in a world that demanded quick wits and imaginative solutions.
Crystals marked his progress, his skill percentage climbing steadily. Each point felt earned, a testament to his ingenuity with his 'Small' power. The 'light' became clearer, more detailed.
The dungeon levels transitioned, the stone growing lighter, patches of strange moss giving way to faint, ethereal glows. The air grew less heavy, carrying faint, unfamiliar scents. The challenges shifted again – puzzles requiring gravity manipulation to solve, traps that needed careful weight adjustments to bypass. He moved with a growing confidence, his internal rhythm finally matching the external demands.
Finally, he reached the uppermost level of Dungeon #7. Ahead stood a magnificent archway, intricate carvings covering its surface, glowing with soft, golden light. The Gate. The end of the dungeon, the beginning of Obelus.
He paused, a lump in his throat. He looked back down the silent passage, the path of his transformation. The Harold who had stumbled into the ogre's room felt like a ghost from a life lived in monochrome. Here, in the brutal, vibrant reality of Obelus, he had found not just survival, but a canvas for his peculiar, quick-darting mind. His 'Small' skill, dismissed by a label, had become the key to unlocking himself.
Taking a steadying breath, filled with profound anticipation, Harold stepped through the Gate.
The world exploded in color and sound. A sky of swirling, impossible hues, alien flora pulsing with soft light, the distant murmur of a city unlike any he'd imagined. The air was fresh, invigorating, alive with a thousand different energies. It was chaotic, unpredictable, and utterly, perfectly… his tune. Harold, the nobody, stood at the threshold of his new life, ready to compose his own story in the vibrant, demanding symphony of Obelus.
