Before he could react, his body seemed to move on its own, charging straight at the burly man in front of him—no, at Instructor.

Bang!

A punch to the chest.

Henry Parker's vision went black, pain searing through him.

"Again!" Instructor beckoned to Brian Brooks.

Only now did he realize he seemed to be in a bizarre state of possession, like a ghost clinging to someone's back, passively experiencing the feedback from this body.

It felt hazy, like a dream, but the pain was all too real, with not the slightest discount.

Bang!

Another throw, plus a joint lock—Henry Parker felt his face slam into the ground.

"Again!"

Bang!

"Again!"

Bang!

...

The scene kept shifting. In those fragmented dream sequences, he seemed to be endlessly subjected to all sorts of abuse by several Instructor.

It was as if they had singled out the poor soul he was possessing for special torment: a beating for improper form, a beating for slow reactions, a beating before meals, a beating right after training.

Eat, sleep, beat up Brian Brooks...

Amid the stench of body odor and feet, Henry Parker had completely given up hope.

Until Brian Brooks could barely hold his own for a couple of rounds against a few Instructor with military boxing, evolving from a total rookie to a slightly less pathetic rookie—then, for getting into a fight with some street punks during police training, he was expelled!

He became a new street punk himself!

Truly, what a joyous occasion, Henry Parker was nearly in tears—he finally didn't have to get beaten up anymore.

What the hell is this?

Did he accidentally acquire some kind of super "get beaten up" system?

What followed was simply indescribable. In those shattered nightmares, Henry Parker's identity kept changing: from the unlucky trainee getting fancy military boxing beatdowns from Instructor, to a street punk carrying a cleaver in the summer heat, ready to risk his life, then to a security guard squatting by the door, watching for cops coming to bust illegal activities, then to a brothel keeper greeting customers every night, and finally, to a bald middle-aged man in endless meetings...

This guy really loved meetings.

Study meetings, seminars, inspections, field trips, report meetings... he poured his limited energy into an infinite number of meetings...

Those fragments kept stacking up, layer upon layer like a precarious building, until they reached their limit and collapsed with a crash, shattering into thousands of pieces again.

Henry Parker's consciousness was pulled apart, splitting into hundreds and thousands of selves, each trapped in a different nightmare, endlessly looping.

It was like a $150 DIY computer foolishly trying to run the workload of a galactic supercomputer. In the end, his overworked brain seemed to spark flames against the inside of his skull, burning everything to ashes.

All the nightmares shattered with a roar.

Henry Parker opened his eyes, gasping for breath, sweat dripping down his face, sliding along the armrest of the chair, and falling onto the damp floor.

The clock on the wall was still ticking slowly.

It had only been five minutes since he closed his eyes.

He had already been beaten eighty or ninety times, gotten into dozens of fights, been sent to the hospital several times, loafed around for hundreds of days, sent scantily clad girls into pink rooms thousands of times... and attended countless meetings.

It was practically the full spectrum of social experience.

...

"This is... hell..."

Henry Parker muttered blankly, unable to support himself, sliding off the chair.

In a daze, he closed his eyes.

Might as well just let me die...

For a moment, he seemed to see the tragic future of his life, and from the bottom of his heart, he made that wish.

Then, it became just like all the wishes Henry Parker had ever made before.

—None of them ever came true.

.

.

When he opened his eyes again, it was already the next morning.

He was still lying on the floor, but his body felt much better, as if he had taken some miraculous elixir.

He quickly noticed the IV needles in both hands—yep, one bottle of saline and one of glucose...

"You're awake?"

A Crow's head suddenly popped in from the side, cheerfully congratulating him: "We've cured your illness of seeing everyone as a pigeon!"

"...Well, thank you so much."

"A doctor's heart is like a parent's, no need to mention it."

Crow flapped its wings, flew over to the table, crossed its legs and sat down, one wing curling around a cigarette from who-knows-where, lighting up skillfully and puffing away like a true street tough. Only, the smoke it inhaled drifted out from under its feathers, looking especially bizarre.

"So, did you gain anything?" Crow asked.

"Does waking up alive count?"

Henry Parker grumbled as he got up from the floor, not daring to pull out the IV, so he carefully leaned back in the chair.

Only then did he realize that he was no longer the same as before—he was now a man with an attribute panel.

He hurriedly opened the Book of Fate and began to examine his stats on the title page.