Gorax the Cleanser tapped his meaty fingers on the sleek metal desk. His face was twisted into a deep frown, his spined lips peeled back to reveal thick tusks that tapered to a needle-point just below his sharp cheekbones.

Under his withering glare, an Ixian shifted nervously, occasionally glancing at an unseen system screen. "Repeat that one more time, I'm not going to eat you," he sighed, rubbing his temple with his spinal arm.

The Ixian in question, a chubby insectoid with a plump pink thorax and two compound eyes perched on either side of its flat head, continued to fidget but remained silent. Gorax snarled and smashed his third hand against the desk. It didn't shift an inch under his galactic strength.

"For system's sake! Orkens haven't eaten an Ixian in six millenia, since the Korax Accords were signed. If you don't want to get penalised you have to figure out how to work with me without snarging your sac-hole. Give me the damn report," Gorax exclaimed, making the plump insectoid assistant flinch.

He cursed the bloody system for assigning him this useless assistant who jumped in fright at his every twitch. Being assigned as Administrator for the 103rd Grand Integration was supposed to be an honour—the culmination of an exceptional life of conquest and advancement that led to his ascension.

However, thus far he'd spent most of his time wrangling this gormless Ixian at every turn. How the plump bastard made it to B grade without dying was an utter enigma.

Eventually, Shneevol—even his damn name sounded cowardly—plucked up the courage to present the report. Terraforming for all celestial bodies that required it in order to meet integration requirements had finished and the early tutorial assessments had been rolling in.

Keeping an eye on promising sapients was his most important task as Administrator and Gorax intended to exceed the system's expectations. If enough geniuses made it through under his watchful eye, it would make his ascension all the greater.

He'd languished in S grade for aeons. He'd grown bored after his final conquest. Seeing a galaxy burn under his feet no longer held the same appeal.

The crunch of a slaughtered foe's flesh and bone didn't make him salivate the way it had when he was an Orklet. Life had grown… tedious.

Ascension was a path to new adventures. New worlds. New conquests. He longed for the freedom it would bring.

In order to achieve that however, he first needed to do his damn job. Luckily Shneevol was a decent assistant, despite his lack of confidence.

"All terraforming operations went smoothly, except for one-"

Gorax groaned and Shneevol winced. The administrator waved and relented. "One isn't so bad. Continue."

"The failure was due to incompatibility between the two celestial bodies. This was an unavoidable complication. Only thirteen point two five billion sapients perished, a rounding error when looking at the entire integration cohort," Shneevol continued, settling into his stride as he delved into the report.

"There have been some standouts in the early tutorial stages already. One promising individual has finished already. Only hard difficulty, but that speed is hard to argue with. Death rate stands at thirty four percent so far, which is among the top twenty-five integrations."

"Top twenty five is pathetic. I want perfection, nothing less. Any outstanding nightmare candidates?" Gorax demanded.

Shneevol tapped at the air, flicking through the endless information at his disposal as an administration assistant. The system was generous to its servants.

"Nightmare participation rate is… two point six percent. That's the second highest across all one hundred and three integrations-" he trailed off, shivering as Gorax growled and shifted forwards in his seat.

"However, the integration with the highest participation rate in nightmare difficulty had a higher death rate than we currently do. That puts us as the best performing cohort for nightmare thus far. Two individuals are in the final stage as we speak."

"Give me the feeds."

Two holographic screens appeared in front of Gorax, displaying two separate tutorials. The individuals in question were taking on the final stage of nightmare difficulty and one of them seemed to be succeeding.

For the first time since he'd been assigned the job, Gorax cracked a smile. He could work with this.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He glanced at the nervous Ixian, who for some reason was still standing in front of him while looking like a shitless dungpile. "What are you waiting for? Get back to work."

"Sir, there was one other issue," Shneevol began, taking a step back when he saw Gorax clench his spinal fist. Eyeing the arm that curled up and over his boss' head warily, he cleared his throat and finished what he had been about to say. "I'm sure it's nothing. The system reported an oddity on the newly terraformed Planet 2.48e11E, formed from four subsidiaries—6.31e13-F, 2.18e13-F,8.64e13-F, and 9.85e12-F."

"If you're sure it's nothing, why the hell are you wasting my time!? Don't bother me unless more promising candidates appear," Gorax exclaimed, smashing a fist against the desk once more and making the Ixian assistant flee in terror.

On the hologram to the left, a small figure flickered in and out of view as it methodically massacred its foe. Gorax smiled, relaxing in his chair and watching the show.

"Keep this up and I'll have some wonderful rewards waiting for you, my little prodigy," he mused, tapping a thick red finger against the screen. "That bastard Boramir will shit his britches when he hears I won the nightmare bet. He's been bragging about that top percentage for centuries."

Ronan had lost everything inside his inventory the first time he died, so hopefully the endless treasury tokens could start to make up for that. He pocketed them before making his way to Keith, who was reading his own notifications with wide eyes.

"Keith, we really gotta work on your combat reactions, man. You can't go running away from weak little runts like that," he quipped, waving at the disintegrating corpses of the two lesser goblins.

"What!? How are you so calm about all this, Ronan? The fucking world just ended and we have to fight monsters to stay alive. I tell you, I'll be complaining to whoever's in charge when we get out. My father will have a thing or two to say about this, I'm sure," he whined.

Ronan was gobsmacked. He hadn't unlocked this dialogue option the first time. Before, Keith had offered him money to protect him—this time his father was going to overrule the system?

He couldn't help but burst into laughter. Keith only grew angrier at that, striding up and grabbing him by the arm. "Listen, I'm your boss. Protect me and I'll make it worth your while," he demanded.

There we go, he sighed internally. Didn't say it outright this time, so I guess that's progress? Ronan removed Keith's clammy hand from his blazer and levelled a steely gaze at him.

The man shrunk under his withering glare and overwhelming size. "Listen, idiot. I'm not going to cover your ass while fighting my own battles. Either you carry your own weight or I'll feed you to these ugly green bastards," he snarled.

I feel bad shouting at a dead man… It's the only way he'll learn to survive, though. Keith looked shocked, then angry, then he froze as his face scrunched up.

"Hmph! We'll see. Hopefully this damned thing splits us up and I don't have to be stuck staring at your hideous face," he snorted, storming into the distance.

"What a bozo," Ronan chuckled. He wasn't sure if the man running away would change anything. As far as he could tell, the muddy fields extended outwards ad infinitum.

Well, whatever. It doesn't change what I need to do. Ronan turned his attention to his status.

[Status]

Name: Ronan Steele

Race: Human (G)

Heritage: @#^?-

Level: 3 (8)

Class: N/A

Fortune: 47 Copper Credits (349c)

[Stats (1.008)]

Health: 90/90

Stamina: 120/120

Mana: 32/50

Vitality: 9

Endurance: 12

Wisdom: 5

Regeneration: 3

Resistance: 6

Strength: 6

Agility: 5

Intelligence: 8

Dexterity: 5

Acuity: 7

Tenacity: 12

Luck: 2

Charisma: 4

Available Points: 3

[Traits]

Personal: Inevitable (Epic)

[Skills]

Unified Language Adaptation (Universal)

Relentless Training (Common)

Magic Strike (Common)

[Mastery]

Pugilist 7/100

Mana 1/100

[Cultivation]

Mind: None

Body: None

Energy: None

Soul: None

He was reminded of his personal trait. He hadn't felt much difference in the past few fights, but those had been easy opponents.

Ronan needed a challenge in order to see how it affected fate. Shifting his actions towards success was a difficult thing to measure.

His second magic strike had used twice as much extra mana as the first. It had been at least twice as devastating, so he wasn't going to complain.

It did mean that he would have to increase his mana pool though. This entire time it had only regenerated a single point on its own. The rate he was consuming his mana oustripped its regeneration by a long shot.

However, he needed the extra points in his physical stats to take down the goblin horde in the third stage. On second thought, do I really? he wondered.

With magic strike, he'd changed the game. It worked as a percentage of his physical damage, so he still needed a hefty punch, but the magical portion seemed a lot more effective on the goblin's squishy insides.

Ronan decided that thinking too hard was the way to madness. He put one point in wisdom and two in agility. This time he knew how to fight the bastards.

That shaman wouldn't get the chance to run and hide. Ronan was coming for vengeance. This time he would clear the third stage and live to advance onwards.

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