Sticking the blade of my axe into the tough, crusty neck of an Abyss Spawn, I couldn't help but marvel at the manner by which the thing's neck detached from the rest of its accursed body. Stretching out the palm of my hand, I collected a few drops of the beast's blood and watched it crystalize into a Dragon Blood Crystal.

[The rest of this event sucked so it doesn't deserve to be chronicled.]

Three days after my friends reverted from their evil hellspawn state back to their original boring selves, I found that my purse was empty. Out of rage, I captured a burul and gouged out its eyes with my axe's pommel. Preserving those eyes in liquid crystal, I made myself a necklace. Putting it on, I felt...stronger. I felt as if whenever I struck out at something, it would often do more damage than normal. I called this phenomenon Supercritical Trauma*.

Suffused with an all-pervading rage, I sprinted out into the Strekade Nests to unleash my burning fury upon the hapless creatures that had the misfortune to stand in my way. Surely, nothing could compare to the bloodthirsty rampage I went on; within two hours, broken gossamer wings were scattered across the field, while lifeless sacks of insect flesh encased in a broken chitin suit dotted the landscape. The soil was stained blue with the blood of the flying insects.

I then realized that I had gained over fifty thousand Experience Points. Screaming the most profane of curses to the heavens and bitterly weeping, I stormed back to my tavern room to rest my weary muscles once more.






Less relatable than the first, eh?

*Decades passed, and this phenomenon is now known as a Critical Hit.