Mike was abruptly awakened as a message blared across his consciousness.

[Warning: Due to assimilation difficulties, you have been classified as a monster. Others will try to hunt you for experience. Apologies in advance for the inconvenience.]

No matter which way he looked, he was unable to get the strange text out of his field of vision, and panic started to mount within him, making him completely oblivious to the cold air that still permeated the area each night, despite it already being midway through April. Thankfully, after a few more seconds, the message slowly dissipated, and he was left wondering what had caused such a weird hallucination. He had been quite sure that the mushrooms he had cooked with his roast and wild onions had been the same ones depicted in his copy of “How to Survive in Montana: Plants and Wildlife”. Admittedly, the book had seen better days. Multiple river crossings and several unexpected downpours meant that the book’s coloring could sometimes be a bit questionable.

The bad trip passing, Mike relaxed back into his cot, taking a moment to observe and appreciate the simple glory of his surroundings. Retirement had seemed slow in coming as he counted down the days and even years left before he could be free, and now it was finally here and he was exactly where he wanted to be.

After growing up in a more rural town and then going straight from High School into the Navy SEALs, he had never been much of a techy guy. And while the world had continued to become more technologically advanced, he had always felt that a simple life, where his progress could be visualized and his body utilized, brought much more comfort at the end of the day than any amount of technology ever could. At 65, it almost seemed too late to catch up to technology even if he wanted to. This trip to Montana had seemed like the only thing he could do to get away from it al. It also seemed like the perfect opportunity to use the survival skills he had continued to perfect even after leaving active duty.

Well, I should probably get back to sleep. I might be waking up sooner than I want to if those mushrooms decide to express themselves in other ways, Mike thought, even as he rolled over and began dreaming about the many possibilities of russet potatoes, carrots, a rump roast, and some basic seasonings. One thing was for certain, SEAL training had made falling asleep quick and efficient.

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Mike rolled off of his cot later than he would have expected the following morning and began putting breakfast together–some quail eggs and a large hunk of day-old bread made from acorn flour. The flour had been harder to make than normal, since the acorns had sat through a winter, but after picking through and finding the usable nuts, the results were absolutely delicious. It was astounding that so few people wanted to try his acorn bread back home. It wasn’t until about half-way through making breakfast that he realized something: his neck didn’t hurt at all. The motorcycle accident that had split him from navel to neck and armpit to armpit had only been the start of his injuries. Once he was no longer on active duty, he had gone to university and joined the rugby team. A few rough tackles, compounding the severe motorcycle accident, had been enough to keep his neck hurting for the last 40 years. But today he didn’t feel a thing.

“Goes to show that there is no substitute for clean leaving” he cherrily said aloud, turning his head from side to side, which elicited a happy groan when he was able to look behind his left shoulder for the first time in what felt like decades.

Turning to his other side, he stooped to pick up his ax, but stopped short when the following notification appeared:

Dayton Ax

Quality: Crude

Durability: Low

Rarity: Common

Attributes: Rebound-this poorly made ax has a 1% chance to rebound and hit the bearer with a force equal to the power behind the swing. Percent chance increased with a decrease in the Luck stat.

Upon seeing the floating text, Mike immediately started forcefully expelling the contents of his stomach. Between the painful muscle contractions required to purge him, he ruminated on how the mushrooms could still be affecting him 6 hours later. While not an expert on poisons, he knew enough to know that getting the poison out of his system was the first step to surviving, and it seemed necessary given that he was still experiencing symptoms.

The notification disappeared a few seconds after he started purging, but Mike wasn’t taking any chances. Finally, when his stomach was completely empty, he chanced another glance at his trusty ax and was relieved to see that no text overlaid his vision.

“Darned mushrooms… Not even the decency to properly categorize my ax. I put all my love and attention into restoring it, even going so far as to hand carve this new handle from oak. I guess not even drug trips appreciate old fashioned hard work these-”

Mike nearly keeled over when yet another notification popped up as he reached to pick up his trusty felling ax:

Felling Ax

Quality: Low

Durability: Mid

Rarity: Common

Attributes: None

Fighting back the panic and forcing himself to remain calm, he began debating if he should wait here until the drugs ran their course, or head into town while not entirely in his right mind. Ultimately, it was the memory of witnessing the effects of untreated poison when he was stationed in Africa that convinced him to go and get help. The decision made, he hurriedly gathered his two axes along with his small survival kit and headed for the nearest town. It usually took him almost two full days of hiking, and he just hoped he would be able to survive the trip.

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The next six hours blurred past as Mike traveled with all haste, until his training suddenly caught up with him. He wasn’t sweaty, his stomach didn’t hurt–in fact he was quite hungry and could go for some homemade biscuits and gravy right now–and aside from energy loss caused by rushing into a long hike before finishing his breakfast, he wasn’t feeling any amount of extra fatigue. On top of all of that, his bum leg hadn’t acted up once during the last six hours and he was making faster time than he normally would. It was a reasonably safe conclusion that those mushrooms wouldn’t kill him, although he was still certain that they hadn’t worn off. Notifications had assaulted his field of vision numerous times over the last six hours, to the point that he was almost getting used to them.

With the extra speed he could muster due to both legs being functioning, he realized he was already halfway to town–meaning that he had doubled his usual time. At this point, he figured he should probably go the rest of the way. Even if those mushrooms wouldn’t kill him, he should still see a doctor or get some medicine or something. Besides, he had been trying to justify the trip into town for several weeks–while he wasn’t too savvy with most technology, he had been eyeing that solar powered crockpot for a while now, after all, dutch oven roast was second only to a tender crockpot roast, lightly salted and slowly cooked for a full 6 hours.

Mike’s attention was drawn to the view in front of him as he ascended the far side of the mountain pass. From here, he could see the rolling hills stretched out in front of him that would eventually give way to civilization, a highway, and finally the town. Looking back over his shoulder, he was again amazed how far he had come in the last six hours. He was camped in a very pleasant sort of valley that only the most devoted nature enthusiasts would enter, and he had not only left that valley, but traversed the larger valley and this mountain pass in that time. The only time he could remember covering ground this quickly had been back in ‘Nam in the mid 70s, and he had had much more incentive to move quickly then with the 500 angry Vietnamese soldiers chasing him pell-mell through the jungles..

Knowing that the mushrooms weren’t slowly killing him, Mike’s panic subsided to a certain degree, and he was able to learn some interesting things about his current mental state during the remainder of the trip. For whatever reason, only certain items caused text to appear in his field of vision, animals seemed to display information one hundred percent of the time, based on the squirrels, birds and even a lone moose that he saw. While plants only rarely displayed information, which although he didn’t understand the why, he was grateful for since it meant that his vision wasn’t constantly clogged with information. What’s more, he had noticed that he only saw the text once for each item.

By far, the weirdest hallucination had been prompted by that Whitebark Pine Tree. He had recognized the tree from his book, and had been surprised when it had been correctly identified in the strange floating text–furthermore, both the book and the hallucination had used the same name for the small tree, and both had called it rare. He had been so focused on the weirdness of their agreement, that he had stumbled over a small root. On instinct, he tucked his shoulder and rolled back to his feet–a feat that his neck and back would have been impossible just the day before. That is when things had really gotten strange:

[Congratulations! You have learned the skill Tumble.

+1 to Strength, Toughness, and Dexterity.

It takes a lot to successfully make a mistake look purposeful.

Continue training hard to develop even more skills]

What’s more, following this message, he felt like he actually was just a hair stronger and moved slightly easier while hiking.

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As the town came into view, Mike pulled up short and surveyed the drastic changes that he could see from outside its boundaries. Usually a very quiet, rural community, the town had apparently grown exponentially since he had last been here. It seemed people were everywhere, and nearly all of them had swords and other dated weaponry on open display about their person. Although usually very interested in weaponry, he rolled his eyes at the abysmal cultists, how medieval festivals had grown so large was totally beyond him. While he had actually specialized in the crossbow as a SEAL (when guns weren’t available), he had a hard time understanding why people would want to sword fight when they could practice real life-saving skills, like ax crafting. Now there was a perfectly suitable skill that everyone would need during the apocalypse.

His annoyance continued to mount as he made his way through the streets and towards his favorite store: ‘Bart’s Food, Clothes, and Everything Else’. Everyone he saw gave him strange looks as he passed them, many of which bordered on hostile. Were they really angry at him for not playing make-believe with them? The aggressive environment caused him to reflexively quick his pace, and he forewent his usual meandering to look inside store windows in his haste. Hopefully Bart, the storekeeper, could give him some idea of what was going on

His vision swam with white text as he crossed the store’s threshold, every item seeming to fight for his attention at once, and he felt a splitting headache building behind his eyes. He was used to migraines from his neck injury, but this was something else.

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Bart looked up from his desk as the door to his store opened and he saw Mike the hermit enter. He felt a little bad for the epitaph that he mentally added to the older man’s name, but that is what most of the locals had come to call the strange man who only rarely interacted with the town.

Idly wondering how he was handling the System integration, Bart studied the man, then did a double take when he saw that the character marker above his head was a deep red–a clear indicator that he was a monster.

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It took several seconds for Mike’s head to calm down, and it was through watery eyes that he examined the inside of the store. It seemed Bart wanted to appeal to the festival going on in town–the cereal aisle now held basic baking ingredients, the gun wall displayed only very crude swords, knives, bows and armor, and the usual camping gear was replaced with some freshly cured animal hides. Weird, but also understandable if the shopkeeper had experienced any of the confrontational behavior that had been angled at himself during his short walk through town. Apparently these cultists took things very seriously.

Mike’s eyes widened in alarm as he realized what the lack of modern products meant, and he rushed towards the back corner of the store. His shoulders slumped in defeat as the truth stared him in the face: the solar powered crock pot was gone too.

Hopefully Bart just put it in the back of the store during the festival, he thought, ever trying to be the optimist his Mother had worked to raise.

Exiting the back corner of the store where the crockpot had once been stored, he made his way to the front, looking at the floor to avoid the stream of notifications that awaited wandering eyes. To his surprise, even the front desk had been replaced, what had once been a standard checkout aisle was now a sturdy oak table. This was perhaps the only change to appease the festival goers that Mike could appreciate, fine oak was hard to come by and it was both strong and weathered well. Yes, he hoped to have a nice oak table like that one day–although, he would make his table himself. That was, afterall, the only way to get anything decent these days.

“Bart, it is good to see you my friend,” Mike said as he made his way up to the table.

“Mike, always… a… pleasure to see you” Mike couldn’t help notice how Bart had stumbled over his sentence or the curious way he was looking at him. Where the people on the streets had looked at him with hostility, Bart seemed to look at him like he was solving a puzzle. Maybe the strange looks were just in his head, another manifestation of the accursed mushrooms? Bart had always been good people, and of the handful of townsfolk Mike knew, he felt most comfortable coming to Bart after the long conversations they had shared about basting meats properly.

Deciding to start at the beginning, Mike jumped right in, “Last night I was craving deer rump roast with some onions and mushrooms, which is really quite easy to do. You take a roast…”, and he began telling him everything. Bart didn’t seem to be as enthralled as he usually was by his recipe, but he did seem to perk up when Mike mentioned the notification that he was a monster, which only solidified that Mike’s choice to talk to him was correct.

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For the first time in their short acquaintance, Bart was thankful for Mike’s ability to turn every conversation into a long discourse on food, as the usually annoying habit gave him some time to deliberate. No matter how many times he looked, Mike’s indicator continued to show him as a monster, ruling out the possibility that Bart was just seeing incorrectly. He concluded that it was also safe to conclude that a monster wasn’t simply impersonating MIke, as he doubted any creature would be able to perfectly mimic the details with which the other man waxed eloquent about roasts. Mike’s own confession that he had been classified as a monster had been what really convinced Bart: this was the same Mike, and he was somehow a monster. That knowledge only led to a larger question, what should Bart do?

Zoning out the proper way to grind acorns, Bart reviewed his experience in the tutorial. While large amounts of knowledge had been explained, the overarching theme had been that the System rewarded those who made the difficult choices and seized greatness. It was a theme that had initially made him feel uneasy, since he felt that life had somewhat forced him to be a shopkeeper in this tiny town. That had changed since returning from the tutorial however, as he found that his position as store owner was one of the most prestigious classes available.

Mike, a monster, walking into his store presented him with two important questions: 1. Would he seize greatness? As a shopkeeper, he had limited opportunity to farm experience by hunting mobs like most people did, and whatever opportunities he took equated to time lost making money. 2. Now that he had the opportunity to become something greater, would he overlook an opportunity to grow, just because it had previously been morally wrong? The System was the new moral compass that would guide society, a fact that promised to unite the world like never before. And that compass had marked Mike as a monster, a clear sign that he should be killed. There was still a remote possibility that this was a test from the System, but even if it wasn’t, should Bart ignore the powers that now controlled this world?

His decision made, Bart began planning how he would attack. Mike was old, but he was still a Navy SEAL, and Bart didn’t know if their difference in years would be enough to tip the scales in his favor. Several very complicated plans came to mind at first, but Bart finally decided on something more straightforward, given that Mike was distractedly still talking, and he knocked the nearest thing off his desk, a small bag of coins, even as he reached for the dagger at his waist.

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As Mike finished explaining how to tell when dutch oven bread was fully cooked, Bart accidentally knocked a bag of coins off the desk. This only muffled Mike’s description of how to cook the perfect egg while he bent over to help tidy up. It was his training that saved him in the end. Mike had felt that alarm bell go off many times in many different situations, and he allowed his instincts to take over. He slid his left shoulder forward and sideways while lifting his left palm to deflect Bart’s wrist, just two inches below the hilt of a dagger that was aiming straight for the upper left corner of his back. It was with some dismay that he realized his right hand was also acting on muscle memory, it had slipped his dayton ax from its loop at his side and he watched in horror as it approached the space right between Bart’s eyes.

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It was a three-way tie for what grabbed Mike’s attention only a split second later. On the one hand, he felt a euphoric feeling and a notification popped up:

[Congratulations on your first kill. +100 Exp]

[Congratulations! Level 2 reached!

As a monster, you receive 3 stat points to assign per level.

Although your luck score will never be altered]

On the other hand, his eyes were watering, his head hurt, and his nose was most certainly broken. Finally, Bart’s face was in even worse shape than his own. Mike’s adrenaline calmed brain tried to piece everything together. Based on the front of the ax blade and, well, Bart, he had killed Bart. Based on the back half of the ax blade, it had somehow rebounded and hit him in the face, probably leading to his broken nose.

Feeling that the situation was fully understood, he started dealing with the ramifications of his current predicament. There was no way that anyone was going to believe that he had fought back only in self defense since this had happened in Bart’s store, and he needed to get out of there as soon as possible. Luckily, it seemed Bart had taken down all the cameras, no doubt another display of effort to meet the demands of the medieval cultists who had overrun the town. Walking to the front door, he moved a bucket of iron ingots in front of it with the side of his foot, hoping it would prove sufficient to prevent anyone from entering in the next few minutes. He then walked back over to the front counter and bent down to grab hold of Bart’s body, but was surprised when the motion caused his left shoulder to scream in pain. It was only then that he noticed that Bart hadn’t completely missed him with the sneak attack. It wasn’t a life threatening wound, but it was going to make using that arm hard.

After dragging the body around the corner and wiping his face and ax off with a stray rawhide shirt, Mike grabbed some various herbs he knew to have healing properties and hurried through the back door. He could only hope that no one would remember they had seen him.