Chapter 2: The 7% Threshold
"Jarvis, explain 'viability threshold' in words that don't sound like they belong in a corporate liquidation report," Mark demanded mentally, his legs churning across the uneven forest path. The adrenaline was a shock to his system, burning off the four years of couch-potato atrophy.
"Viability: The capacity for survival or for the successful continuation of a specified plan or function. In this context, Elias Noax's physiological and magical reserves are severely depleted. The Silverleaf Salve is required for a 30% stabilization. Your current cargo, the Feverbloom mixture, will only halt the decline for approximately six hours."
Mark's breath hitched, the panic tightening his chest until it felt like the ribcage of the previous, useless Ethan. "Six hours. I've wasted three hours just waking up and having an existential crisis. If I had stayed the trash man, she'd already be dead."
"Statistical certainty of that outcome: 87.4%," Jarvis confirmed neutrally.
The alien AI was ruthlessly honest, and Mark found himself running harder, punishing his new, youthful body for the sins of his former life. He hated the cold, dispassionate analysis, but it was the cattle prod driving him forward.
"Okay, okay. New rules. I listen to you, but you stick to simple language. And stop telling me how bad I am."
"Understood, Host. The primary resource to acquire is currency. The local denomination is the Silver Shilling (SS)."
"Right, the poor to rich segment of the plot. I read this one. So where's the starter pack? The legendary sword under the waterfall? The hidden skill tree?"
Before Jarvis could answer, the trees abruptly gave way, and Mark stumbled onto the edge of Oakhaven Village.
Oakhaven was exactly as the memories described: small, nestled in the valley, a cluster of thatched roofs and smoke-stained chimneys. The central structures—the blacksmith shop, the small tavern, and the towering, modest stone Church of the Unified Light—looked like something lifted directly from a 19th-century British historical romance. There were no neon signs, no exhaust fumes, just the smell of burning peat and damp wool.
He ignored the few villagers who looked his way, their faces etched with the hard lines of a tough agrarian life. Mark cut through the main thoroughfare, heading straight for the humble Noax cottage on the west side.
The house was small, built of heavy timber and stone, with a patch of wilting vegetables out front. He threw open the door without knocking, the satchel tight in his grasp.
Inside, the light was low. A sputtering candle cast long shadows over the main room, illuminating a workbench covered in chisels and rough-cut wood—the tools of a woodsman.
And there was Thomas Noax.
Mark's "father" was a man built like an old oak: solid, rough, with deep creases around his eyes. He sat slumped in a chair near the hearth, his head in his hands. He looked less like a father and more like a man who had forgotten how to hope.
At the sound of the door crashing open, Thomas sprang up, his tired eyes widening in relief and shock.
"Mark! Gods, lad! We thought... we thought the fever took you, too! You've been gone three days!" Thomas rushed forward, pulling Mark into a tight, crushing hug that smelled of pine needles and worry.
Mark, the man who hadn't been hugged since he was an actual child, instinctively stiffened, then allowed the embrace. This was Thomas, a good man worn down by struggle. He was his father now.
"I... I was delayed," Mark stammered, pulling back quickly. He couldn't lie well yet. "I got the medicine. Where is Mother Elias?"
"In bed, son. She barely wakes." Thomas's voice cracked. He looked at the woven satchel in Mark's hand, hope flickering in his eyes. "You got the Silverleaf? Thank the Light!"
Mark shook his head quickly. "No, Father. It's the Feverbloom mixture. The one the city doctor said would buy time." He handed over the small, wrapped vial.
Thomas's shoulders visibly sagged, the relief draining out of him, replaced by a deep, weary sorrow. He took the vial and moved toward the small bedroom.
Mark followed him into the dim, clean-swept room. Elias Noax lay pale against rough linen sheets. Her skin was dry, drawn taut over her cheekbones, and her breathing was shallow, interrupted by faint, racking coughs. She looked nothing like the robust, warm woman whose memories he now carried.
She looked like 7%.
Thomas gently woke his wife and administered the thick, herbal mixture. Elias swallowed it with difficulty, her eyes fluttering open just enough to register Mark's face. A ghost of a smile touched her lips before she slipped back into a heavy slumber.
"She'll be stable now, son," Thomas whispered, tears welling in his eyes. "But we only have until morning. The Feverbloom wears off fast. We need the real Silverleaf Salve. It's the only cure for the Shadow Rot."
Mark leaned against the doorframe, the truth hitting him harder than any meteor. This isn't a game. This is immediate, fatal, reality.
"Jarvis, status update on Elias," Mark thought.
"Viability stabilized at 15%. Prognosis: Decline resumes in T-minus 6 hours. Priority: Silverleaf Salve acquisition."
Mark looked at Thomas, whose massive hands were shaking as he tucked the blanket around Elias.
"Father, how much does the Salve cost?"
Thomas winced, looking away. "It's... it's 30 Silver Shillings, Mark. They sell it at the Church. But no one in Oakhaven has 30 SS. We sold the last of our cured lumber, and we still owe the butcher and the baker enough to cover half that. I have three Shillings left." He dropped his gaze to the floor. "I've failed her, son."
The despair in Thomas's voice was too raw, too human. Mark felt a sudden, fierce loyalty to this good man who had done everything he could. This is what it means to have family, he thought. It means you stop being trash and start fighting.
"I'll get it," Mark said, his voice surprisingly firm.
Thomas looked up, confused. "How? Mark, you're just a boy who knows how to read books and run errands."
I'm also a 31-year-old former layabout with an alien AI supercomputer stuck in my head. Mark didn't say that. Instead, he forced a confidence he didn't feel. "I'll work. I'll find something in the city tomorrow."
Thomas just sighed, running a hand through his sparse gray hair. "The city takes weeks to earn that. We have hours, not weeks. Mark, please, just rest. We can pray to the Unified Light."
Praying is what trash men do when they give up, Mark thought, moving back into the main room.
"Jarvis. I need 27 Silver Shillings, fast. I'm thinking 'Resource Acquisition Module Activation' now. Show me the shortcut that every trash-to-riches protagonist gets."
A large, detailed interface—a genuine System Screen—flickered into existence in Mark's mind's eye. It was overlaid with crisp text and high-resolution symbols, shockingly advanced against the backdrop of the dusty cottage.
[Resource Acquisition Module: Active]
"Host, the system detects three immediate, high-yield opportunities suitable for your current capabilities (Level 1, Non-Combatant Class: Reader/Courier)."
Mark's sarcastic side immediately surfaced. Non-Combatant Class: Reader/Courier? That's my previous life summarized. "Show me the list, Jarvis."
The screen shifted, displaying three options:
[Beginner Quest: Fungal Foray]: Collect 50 units of glowing Nightcap Mushrooms from the Shadowfen Swamp. Reward: 5 SS.
[Novice Quest: The Butcher's Ledger]: Successfully negotiate the repayment of Thomas Noax's debt with Butcher Silas (Requires Charisma 10+). Reward: Debt Forgiveness.
[Urgent Quest: Oakhaven's Scourge]: Eliminate the source of the recent livestock attacks plaguing Oakhaven's outskirts. Warning: High Danger. Reward: 30 Silver Shillings and [First Blood Achievement].
Mark stared at the third option, his eyes wide. "Thirty Shillings? That's exactly what we need."
"Affirmative. This quest offers a 100% solution to the primary resource crisis. However, the system must inform you that your current physical attributes are inadequate for engagement with the perceived threat. Your base Strength is 4, Agility 5. Recommended engagement level: 12."
"A threat? What is this 'scourge'?"
"Local accounts describe the assailants as 'fast, aggressive, and numerous.' The system identifies the most probable threat as a nest of Goblin-Foxes. They are territorial, possess sharp claws, and hunt in packs of 8–12. Current gear: One worn woodsman's knife (Durability 5%). Probability of Host survival in direct engagement: 18%."
Mark felt the blood drain from his face. Eighteen percent. Those odds were terrible. He'd never even been in a real fight, let alone against fantasy creatures with claws. The old Ethan would have immediately chosen the safe mushroom quest and spent a week gathering them, failing Elias in the process.
But the cold image of Elias's pale face—her viability at a pathetic 15%—burned away the laziness. I swore I wouldn't be useless. I won't lose this family.
"Jarvis, accept Urgent Quest: Oakhaven's Scourge."
"Quest accepted. You have 6 hours to eliminate the Goblin-Fox nest and retrieve the necessary token of completion. Current Time: 23:15."
Mark moved swiftly, silently, grabbing the only weapon he could find on Thomas's workbench: an old, sturdy, but dull woodsman's axe, its blade nicked from years of cutting hardwood.
As he reached the back door, Thomas called out softly from the bedroom, "Mark? Where are you going, son?"
Mark paused, the axe heavy and awkward in his hand. "Just… getting some fresh air, Father. Don't worry. I've got an idea."
He slipped out into the cold night air. The smell of peat smoke and pine was replaced by the metallic tang of fear and determination. He moved towards the dark, forested edge of the village, where the livestock pens had been savaged the night before.
"Jarvis, is there anything I can do, anything at all, to improve my combat odds right now?"
"Affirmative. The System detected trace elemental energy residue during the integration phase. You possess a latent connection to the Earth Element. Activating [Skill: Basic Stone Skin] module now. This will cost 50% of your current ambient magical reserves. Do you accept?"
"Accept. Do it, Jarvis."
A rush of cold, solid energy, like liquid stone, flooded his new Mark Noax body. Mark felt a sudden, comforting stiffness in his skin, a faint, almost invisible layer of gray energy covering his arms.
"Skill Activated: Basic Stone Skin (Lvl 1). Defense +10. Duration: 5 minutes."
"Five minutes. Great," Mark muttered, his heart still hammering.
He stepped over a low, broken fence marking the outer perimeter of the village and entered the shadows of the forest. The air instantly grew colder, the sounds of the wilderness amplified. He knew the Goblin-Foxes were out here, hunting.
I just need to find them, kill the pack leader, grab the bounty, and save Elias.
He was concentrating on his footfalls, trying to remember any useful fantasy novel strategy, when Jarvis's synthesized voice delivered a final, chilling correction that froze Mark in his tracks.
"Correction, Host. The threat assessment was partially incomplete. The recent livestock attacks were carried out by a Goblin-Fox nest. However, the specific scent of the nest leader indicates a Variant Alpha—a Goblin-Fox with trace elemental mutation. The actual size of the pack is not 8–12. It is 25."
Mark gripped the axe until his knuckles were white, the Stone Skin feeling woefully inadequate. Twenty-five. That was an army.
"Jarvis. I have an 18% chance against twelve. What is my survival probability against twenty-five?"
"Calculating… Host. Current survival probability against the Variant Alpha pack: 2.1%."
Thank You
°give a review