I woke at exactly 5:07 AM, my internal clock pulling me from sleep despite having gotten only four and a half hours of rest. My body protested the early wake-up call with a symphony of aches and pains from yesterday’s extreme training session, but it was manageable. Pain Resistance was doing its job, filtering the worst of the sensations, but the pain was still somewhat present.
Rolling out of bed carefully to avoid waking the others, I took a moment to assess my condition. My wrist was still broken, I could feel the bones grinding when I flexed it, but the acute swelling had gone down significantly overnight. My torn bicep had reformed into something resembling its normal shape, though I could still feel the damaged tissue beneath the surface. Overall, Physical Recovery Efficiency had done impressive work while I slept.
The groggy feeling that should have accompanied such little sleep was barely noticeable. Either my enhanced physical condition was compensating, or I was running on the kind of adrenaline-fueled focus that came with waking up at a good REM cycle.
Last night’s success with Pain Resistance had opened up possibilities I’d never considered before. If I could systematically develop resistance to various forms of damage, I could make myself significantly more difficult to kill. Not invincible. The dream had reminded me that death was always possible, but resilient enough that most conventional threats would become manageable inconveniences.
First, though, I needed to clean up the evidence of my previous experimentation.
The gym reeked when I opened the door. The smell of vomit and dried blood mixed with the lingering odor of sweat created an almost toxic atmosphere that made my stomach lurch. But I pushed through the nausea and got to work, using cleaning supplies from the supply closet to remove all traces of what had happened.
The blood stains were the worst part. They’d dried into dark, rusty patches that required significant scrubbing to remove completely. The vomit was easier to clean but more revolting to handle, especially when Observation picked up details I would have preferred to ignore.
It took nearly an hour to restore the gym to something resembling normal condition. By the time I finished, the room smelled like industrial cleaning products instead of bodily fluids, which was a significant improvement. I wanted to open a window to help air out the chemical smell, but Anthony told me not to risk anything so I chose not to. Instead, I headed for the shower.
The hot water felt incredible against my damaged muscles, providing temporary relief from the constant low-level pain that had become my new normal. As I washed, I found myself planning my next experiment. The goal was simple: develop as many resistance skills as possible, as quickly as possible.
My first thoughts were gunshots and poison, but one of them seemed unlikely to be achievable through training. Bullets caused damage through kinetic energy transfer and tissue destruction—you couldn’t really build up a tolerance to having holes punched through your organs.
Poison resistance, on the other hand, was definitely possible. People could develop tolerance to various toxins through gradual exposure, and I’d already proven that the System would grant skills for capabilities pushed beyond normal human limits.
Alcohol was technically a poison, and it was readily available in our kitchen. Perfect.
After drying off and getting dressed, I made my way to the pantry. We kept a decent selection of liquor for social occasions and cooking, including several bottles of high-proof vodka that would serve my purposes perfectly.
I pulled out a bottle of premium vodka—80 proof, 40% alcohol by volume—and a shot glass. Then I sat down at the kitchen counter and began planning my approach. Unlike the previous night’s chaotic self-destruction, this experiment needed to be more controlled. I was dealing with a substance that could easily kill me if I miscalculated the dosage.
But I also needed to push far enough beyond normal limits to trigger a System response.
Eighteen shots seemed like a reasonable starting point. Enough to potentially cause alcohol poisoning in a normal person, but hopefully not enough to kill someone with my enhanced physical condition and recovery abilities.
I poured the first shot and downed it immediately, feeling the familiar burn as the alcohol hit my throat and stomach. Then the second. The third. By the fifth shot, I was already feeling the effects—a warm sensation spreading through my chest and a slight loosening of my coordination.
Shot six. Seven. Eight. The alcohol was hitting my system hard now, my vision beginning to blur slightly and my balance becoming questionable. A rational person would have stopped here, recognizing the signs of dangerous intoxication.
Shot nine. Ten. Eleven. My hands were shaking now, and I had to concentrate to pour each shot without spilling. The room was starting to spin gently, and I could feel my liver working overtime to process the massive influx of toxins.
Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. This was definitely entering dangerous territory. My heart rate had increased significantly, and I was sweating despite the air conditioning. Nausea was building in my stomach, and I had to focus on not vomiting.
Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. The world was tilting now, reality becoming fluid and unreliable. My skills were the only thing keeping me conscious at this point. A normal person would have been unconscious or dead.
I set the glass down with exaggerated care, then immediately drank a full cup of water to help dilute the alcohol in my system. The combination of liquid left me feeling uncomfortably full, my stomach stretched to capacity.
Then I sat perfectly still and focused on the internal process of digestion and metabolism.
My liver was working harder than it ever had before, attempting to process alcohol at levels that would have been fatal to most people. I could feel the organ struggling, the burning sensation in my right side indicating that I was pushing it to its absolute limits.
Superior Endurance was helping. I could feel my enhanced cardiovascular system working to distribute the toxins more efficiently, and my improved recovery rate was already beginning to counter some of the damage. But this was still dangerous. I was gambling that my enhanced physiology could handle what I was putting it through.
The nausea hit hard about thirty minutes in. Waves of sickness rolled through me, my stomach contracting violently as it tried to reject the massive dose of poison I’d forced into it. I gripped the edge of the counter and concentrated on keeping everything down, using pure willpower to override my body’s natural protective responses.
Sweat poured down my face as my system fought to maintain homeostasis. My heart was racing, my breathing shallow and rapid. Every instinct screamed at me to vomit, to purge the toxins before they could do permanent damage.
But I held on, focusing on the gradual process of metabolization. My liver was breaking down the alcohol molecule by molecule, converting it into less harmful compounds that my kidneys could filter out. The process was slow and painful, but it was working.
Two hours passed. Then three. The acute symptoms gradually began to subside as my enhanced recovery systems gained ground against the toxins. My vision cleared, my coordination improved, and the nausea receded to manageable levels.
I was still somewhat drunk, around the same level as someone who is buzzed, but I was functional. More importantly, I could feel my liver adapting in real time, becoming more efficient at processing alcohol as it gained experience with the extreme workload.
Around 8:30 AM, I heard movement from the bedroom. Sienna was waking up, which meant the others wouldn’t be far behind. I needed to appear normal, or at least as normal as someone with a supposedly sprained ankle could manage.
That’s when the System notification appeared:
Poison Resistance (Lv. 1) - Decreases the harmful effects of ingested or injected toxins by reducing absorption rate and increasing metabolic efficiency. Physical damage from toxins is reduced by 10%.
This is new...I didn’t know that skills could give a percentage to illustrate their effects.
I stood up carefully, testing my balance and coordination. The alcohol was still affecting me, but the new skill seemed to be actively counteracting its effects. I felt significantly more stable than I should have after consuming eighteen shots of vodka in rapid succession.
"Rey?" Sienna’s voice drifted down the hallway. "Are you up already?"
"In the kitchen," I called back, making sure to add a slight slur to my words that could be attributed to morning grogginess rather than massive intoxication.
She appeared a few minutes later, dressed in comfortable sleep clothes with her hair slightly disheveled from sleep. Her expression immediately shifted to concern when she saw me standing by the counter.
"What are you doing up so early? And why are you limping around on that ankle?"
I’d forgotten to maintain the fiction of my injury. "Couldn’t sleep, you know with a sprained ankle and all" I said, exaggerating the limp as I moved away from the counter. "Thought I’d get some water and maybe start on breakfast."
She frowned, studying my posture and movement. "You sprained your ankle? You shouldn’t be putting weight on it, Rey."
"It’s not that bad," I protested, but she was already moving to guide me toward a chair.
"Sit down," she ordered, her tone brooking no argument. "I’ll handle breakfast. You need to let that injury heal properly."
I allowed her to help me into a chair, grateful for the excuse to sit still while my system finished processing the alcohol. The new Poison Resistance skill was working remarkably well—I felt significantly better than I should have, given what I’d just put my body through.
As Sienna began pulling ingredients from the refrigerator and pantry, I reflected on the success. I’d gained another resistance skill with relatively minimal risk compared to the previous night’s chaos. The approach had been more controlled, more scientific.
But as the satisfaction of achievement settled over me, two uncomfortable realizations began to take shape.
First, and more immediately relevant: I probably wouldn’t be getting drunk anymore. At least not easily. The Poison Resistance skill was already neutralizing most of the alcohol’s effects, which meant casual drinking had just become essentially pointless. If I wanted to achieve intoxication in the future, I’d need to consume even more alcohol, enough to overwhelm the resistance. That could quickly become a dangerous escalation.
But the second realization was far more troubling, and it struck me with the force of a physical blow.
How can I even level up these skills?