Chapter 3: The 2.1% Solution
"Two point one percent. Jarvis, that's statistically worse than tossing a coin 99 times and having it land on the edge," Mark thought, his voice tight with a mixture of terror and a strange, cold resignation. He still clutched the heavy woodsman's axe, its edge looking laughably inadequate against twenty-five mutated beasts.
"Your analogy is mathematically flawed, Host. However, the assessment stands. Your current physical capacity is equivalent to a high-risk liability. To survive, you must deploy the one resource no Goblin-Fox possesses: Strategic Planning and Predictive Modeling."
The System spoke with the detached precision of a general giving orders during a retreat. Mark took a deep, shuddering breath, the scent of damp earth and fear filling his lungs. He was the trash man, the perpetual failure, but four years of reading tactical fantasy novels had at least filled his head with a theoretical understanding of survival.
"Okay, Jarvis. I can't outrun, and I can't outfight. I have five minutes of Stone Skin defense. That means I need to funnel them. I need a kill zone."
"Correct, Host. The logical convergence point is required. Utilize the environmental parameters."
Mark looked around. They were near the sheep pens, right where the village gave way to the deep forest. The perimeter was a disaster, with broken, staggered sections of wooden fence posts, leaving large gaps where the beasts had entered. But near the corner, a cluster of old, heavy feed barrels lay overturned, and a large, fallen log created a natural choke point.
"The log and the barrels. I can't fight twenty-five, but maybe I can fight three." Mark dropped the axe and started shoving the largest feed barrel, his back muscles screaming in protest. The strength of his new body was a welcome, if limited, advantage.
"Host, your action suggests a proactive funneling strategy. Time is critical. Recommendation:
Use the [Basic Stone Skin] skill now to boost immediate power output for object manipulation."
"Stone Skin... for moving barrels?" Mark scoffed, but accepted the logic. The faint, grayish light coating his body brightened slightly. The barrel, still heavy, suddenly felt manageable. He rolled it into place, using the gap between the log and the fence line to create a narrow, one-Goblin-Fox-wide corridor.
He worked in a frantic, silent blur, his mind operating on a level of focus the old Ethan had never known. He wedged two heavy, splintered fence posts together, further narrowing the kill zone. He was no longer waiting for a shortcut; he was building one.
"Trap established. Viability of the structure: 65%. Time remaining on Stone Skin: 3 minutes 45 seconds. Incoming threat detected: North-West quadrant. Time to encounter: 90 seconds."
Ninety seconds. Mark snatched up the axe, his hands slick with sweat despite the cold. He retreated five feet behind the choke point, settling into the shadows of a large oak tree.
"Jarvis, is the Alpha leading the charge?"
"Negative. The Alpha Variant is maintaining distance. It is utilizing its pack structure to test and overwhelm the current defenses. The initial wave consists of twelve standard Goblin-Foxes."
Mark took a shaky breath, the sound loud in the oppressive silence. He tightened his grip on the axe, his internal monologue a chaotic blend of sheer terror and tactical analysis. Twelve first. Good. That's manageable, relatively.
Suddenly, the silence shattered. A collective, high-pitched shriek—the sound of predators sensing fresh, panicked prey—ripped through the trees.
They burst from the shadows not as a coordinated unit, but as a ravenous torrent of muscle and fur. They were low to the ground, about the size of large dogs but with unnaturally long snouts, sharp, hooked claws, and a coat of patchy, dark brown fur that seemed to absorb the moonlight. Their eyes, all twelve pairs, glowed with malevolent, yellow hunger.
The first three hit the funnel simultaneously.
Mark didn't think; he reacted. The old Ethan would have frozen. The new Mark, fueled by the vow and the desperate image of Elias's face, met them with a roar.
The first Goblin-Fox squeezed past the barrel, lunging for his throat. Mark swung the axe down in a frantic, horizontal arc. It wasn't the practiced swing of a woodsman; it was the wild, desperate chop of a man fighting for his life.
The dull blade connected with the creature's midsection with a sickening thwack. The blow was partially deflected by the beast's surprising resilience, but it was enough to knock it sideways into the fence post.
Before the first beast could recover, the second was airborne. Its claws raked against Mark's forearm—the Stone Skin shimmered, absorbing the impact with a sound like stone grating against metal. Mark felt a deep, jarring vibration, but the skin beneath was miraculously intact.
"Stone Skin Defense utilized. Current capacity: 85%," Jarvis stated in his mind.
Mark used the handle of the axe like a blunt club, slamming it into the second Goblin-Fox's skull. The creature crumpled, twitching.
The third one, momentarily delayed by the blockage, saw its opening. It was fast, terrifyingly so. It slipped under the axe swing and sank its teeth into Mark's thigh.
Mark let out a raw cry of pain, the defense skill only covering his upper body. The teeth pierced the worn fabric and tore into the flesh beneath. The smell of his own blood was suddenly overwhelmingly coppery and metallic.
"Host is injured. Health: 95%. Pain tolerance compromised. Initiate emergency adrenaline response?"
"No! I need the pain! It keeps me awake!" Mark grunted, slamming the axe butt down onto the third creature's head, finally silencing its screech.
He kicked the dead bodies out of the funnel path. He had three minutes of Stone Skin left, and nine more standard foes pressed against the barricades, scrambling over the dead.
He could hear the rest of the pack—the ones he hadn't seen yet—shifting in the deeper woods, their growls lower, hungrier. They were waiting for the Alpha.
Mark leaned heavily against the oak tree, breathing in desperate, ragged gasps. The pain in his leg was immediate, intense, and grounding. This is real. This is what not being trash feels like. It hurts like hell.
The battle devolved into a brutal, claustrophobic ballet of desperation. Mark learned quickly: the axe was too slow. He dropped it and switched to the old woodsman's knife he had in his belt, the one Thomas used for carving. It was small, sharp, and fast.
He fought the remaining nine standard Goblin-Foxes, using the funnel to ensure he never faced more than two simultaneously.
The Stone Skin was a lifesaver, allowing him to take shallow hits to the chest and arms while delivering devastating stabs to the creatures' necks and soft underbellies.
He felt the pure, primal need to kill them before they killed him. Every thrust of the knife was accompanied by a mental image of Elias's 15% viability threshold.
When the last standard Goblin-Fox fell, its yellow eyes dimming on the cold dirt, Mark was soaked in blood—mostly theirs, but a significant amount was his own, dripping from the thigh wound. He was shaking violently, his chest heaving, his body flooded with adrenaline and magical exhaustion.
"Standard Goblin-Fox pack eliminated.
Host level: Upgrading to Level 2. Attributes allocated: Strength +1, Agility +1.
New Skill Slot unlocked."
"Stone Skin duration ended. Total elapsed time: 4 minutes 58 seconds."
Mark didn't care about the stats. He cared that he had survived. He cared that he hadn't quit.
But the real fight was just beginning.
A deep, guttural roar—not a shriek, but a sound of heavy, coiled malice—echoed from the darkness.
The remaining pack members, the Variant Alpha and its twelve core guards, emerged.
The Alpha was unmistakable. It was significantly larger, easily the size of a mountain wolf, and its fur was a sickly, pale gray, stained with an unnatural, greenish tint. Its yellow eyes burned with intelligence, not just hunger. A faint, greenish vapor seemed to coil around its paws—the trace elemental mutation Jarvis had warned about.
It stepped over the bodies of its fallen pack members without a glance, its movements slow, deliberate, and utterly confident.
"Warning, Host. Threat level is critical. The Variant Alpha detects weakness and fatigue. Survival probability is now 0.5% due to blood loss and skill cool-down."
Mark raised his woodsman's knife, the axe now too far away. His legs were screaming from the exertion and the bite wound. He was physically and magically depleted.
"Jarvis. I don't have another five minutes of Stone Skin, do I?"
"Negative. Cool-down: 10 minutes."
"Then I need a distraction. I need a cheat code. That whole 'intelligent alien AI' thing? Deploy it now."
The Alpha charged, not with a shriek, but with a silent, terrifying burst of speed.
"Host. Immediate combat is impossible. However, the system possesses latent, non-combat sensory modules. Prepare for deployment of [Skill: Basic Fear Inducement (Passive)]. This skill affects the Goblin-Foxes' low-tier hive mind, but requires maximum system channeling."
Mark braced himself, ready to die. He closed his eyes, accepting the fact that the Alpha was going to tear his throat out.
"Deploy now!"
Instead of an external burst of energy, Mark felt Jarvis concentrate the AI's entire processing power into his brain.
For a split second, Mark didn't hear sound; he heard the raw, biological fear of the Goblin-Foxes—the terror of a primitive animal encountering an unknown, higher intelligence.
Jarvis didn't cast a spell. It transmitted pure, overwhelming cognitive dissonance into the hive mind.
The Variant Alpha, mid-leap, suddenly paused. Its intelligent yellow eyes wavered, losing their focus. It let out a confused, pained yelp, not of attack, but of confusion and primal terror. It landed clumsily, shaking its head as if trying to dislodge an invisible spike.
"Host, the Alpha Variant is experiencing a temporary cognitive disruption. Duration: 15 seconds. It is looking for the source of the high-level threat. Attack the jugular vein on the right side of the neck. It is the only exposed weakness."
Mark didn't hesitate. He was a spectator to his own body's movement. He moved like a coiled spring, a desperate leap fueled by the memory of his own miserable death.
He lunged past the Alpha's confused guard, ignoring the twelve other creatures that were also shaking their heads in agony. He drove the small carving knife deep into the side of the Alpha's neck, exactly where Jarvis had indicated.
It wasn't a clean kill. The knife went deep, hitting bone, but the Alpha let out a final, ear-splitting screech, a sound of fury and agonizing shock. It bucked violently, throwing Mark clear and sending him slamming into the oak tree.
Mark hit the ground, his vision blurring. He tasted blood—his own, from biting his tongue.
The Alpha stumbled, the green vapor around its paws flickering and dying. The cognitive link was broken. It let out a pathetic, wet gurgle, and its huge, powerful body collapsed heavily onto the damp ground, instantly still.
The remaining twelve Goblin-Foxes, their hive mind shattered by the death of the Alpha and the psychic residue of Jarvis's interference, let out mournful, panicked cries. They didn't attack. They scattered, vanishing into the deep forest like shadows retreating from a sudden light.
Mark lay there, sprawled on the cold earth, staring at the motionless body of the Variant Alpha. The fear was still there, a freezing block in his stomach, but it was slowly giving way to a sickening, dizzying sense of absolute, utter exhaustion.
"Mission Complete. Urgent Quest: Oakhaven's Scourge. Reward: 30 Silver Shillings. [First Blood Achievement] Unlocked. Host Leveling Up to Level 3."
Mark didn't respond. He slowly dragged himself over to the Alpha's neck. A small, black, leather pouch was clutched in its claw. The bounty token. He ripped it free and held it tightly in his bloodied hand.
Thirty Silver Shillings. Elias is saved.
He finally allowed himself to collapse back onto the ground. He was a mess of scrapes, tears, and a painful thigh wound. But he was alive.
He was no longer the trash man. He was a survivor.
But as he lay there, looking up at the indifferent stars, one thought, cold and clear, cut through his exhaustion: I just earned 30 Silver Shillings by killing a monster,
which is enough money to buy one medicine for my mother. What happens tomorrow, when the money is gone and she needs food? What happens next week?
He had saved Elias's life, but he hadn't saved them from the crushing weight of poverty in this harsh new world. He was a Level 3 Reader/Courier with a magical axe wound, and he needed a source of continuous, long-term income—and fast.
[AUTHOR NOTE :- 5 POWER STONE EQUAL 3 CHAPTER.
5 HONEST REVIEW = 3 NEW CHAPTER]
***every day 8:30****