Rimelion: The Exploiter

6. What's in that crate?

After a few minutes of him accidentally brushing against me, I decided it was time to create some distance. But what, it's not like he's a warrior and I can put him through exercises. Oh, mage... perfect. He should practice his spells anyway. I gave him a pointed look. "Why don't you start using spark? You need to increase your proficiency, and resting between casts will be good practice." He looked like he wanted to argue until he caught my glare, then reluctantly started tracing runes in the air, sending sparks toward the Goolems.

The flames fizzled around them, barely making a dent. "They're immune to fire! I'm only doing 1 damage!" he complained, muttering, "If we'd gone after gray wolves, we'd be level two by now..."

"This is faster. Just wait until we take one down—then we can talk. If you're still complaining, I'll drag you to the elf village," I smirked, focusing back on smashing their stone heads.

My staff's durability was dropping faster than I'd expected, but it should hold up for another two hours. Even if it broke, I could use any old stick—this thing was barely better than a branch anyway. The description even said so.

[Goolem has been defeated. +150XP]
[Congratulations! You are now level 2! XP to next level: 100/200]
[You found a strange book x2. Goolem pool: 99/100]
[You found shoes.]

"That's what I'm talking about!" I shouted with joy, look at the loot triumphantly. I turned to fist bump Lucas, but he surprised me by pulling me into a hug. So I shrugged, returning the embrace for a moment before pulling back to examine our hard-won spoils. Really, how long can people swing sticks and not get sick of it?

"Charlie, it's not that I doubted you—"

"What? You didn't doubt me?" I gave him a deadly glare and shoved the loot pile his way. "Identify. Now."

"Alright, alright! Maybe I was a little skeptical." He chuckled nervously, still looking at the loot in awe. "But you actually delivered. How did we get 150 XP from this? That's insane! The gray wolves barely give 1 or 2 XP each."

"These Goolems are rare mini-bosses that roam in groups of three or more. They give twenty times the XP of regular monsters," I explained with a smug grin. "Now stop talking and identify the loot already."

Grumbling, Lucas began casting his identification spell. Mages had the unique ability to identify items, making them perfect partners for any ventures. My personal walking identifier groaned as he focused on the spell. I watched, trying to catch any hint of the runes he was drawing, but the process was hidden from my view. Too bad—I could've teased him for any mistakes. Then again, he'd probably do the same to me.

"Come on, Lucas, focus!" I urged impatiently, unable to stop my gaze from lingering on a shiny pair of boots in the pile. What's gotten into me?

"Charlie!" he hissed, trying to concentrate. "Quiet—I'm focusing!" He gritted his teeth, casting the spell again after a failed attempt. Finally, after what felt like the tenth try, he handed me a dusty book. "Here, I think this one's for you."

[You found a book of Smite]

[Smite]
Type: 2-uncommon | Lv. Novice 1 | Mana: 20% INT
Effect: Damages target for 15% INT.
* as you increase the proficiency, the mana used will decrease. Limit: minimum 10%

I could learn the spell right away, but I hesitated, biting my lip. I only had space for five spells until I hit level ten, so each choice had to count. Better to hold off for something with a rare rating or higher.

The second book was a spell for mages, so it seemed the system had rewarded us based on our classes. Probably a bonus for scoring the first Goolem kill. Lucas finally identified the shoes, tossing them over with a smug grin.

"Thanks!" I beamed, slipping them on immediately. My celebration at the end of my barefoot journey was short-lived; I took one triumphant step forward and promptly face-planted. My nose smacked into the ground, and I got a mouthful of gritty soil. What the—?! I looked up to find Lucas laughing so hard he was literally rolling on the ground, practically the definition of ROFL. Sometimes he was so immature.

Infuriated, I glared down at my new footwear, clenching my jaw. Then I shouted into the empty mountains, "Why do these stupid shoes have heels? How am I supposed to walk in them?" Lucas was still laughing, so I threw a rock at him, dealing zero damage. "I could at least walk when I was barefoot! Aren't these sexists? Look at your robe—totally modest. Meanwhile, mine barely covers anything. And now heels? Seriously?"

After venting my frustration, I attempted to walk again, but it was clunky at best. Fighting in them? Forget it. Hopefully, I'd get used to it with some practice. Apparently, the item was "universal," meaning it changed appearance based on my gender and role—Priest. How thoughtful of the programmers. Clearly, they'd wanted a good laugh. I was among them, especially when I saw Katherine... That the aesthetic was imposed on me like an unwanted joke made me furious.

Lucas's laughter, which only seemed to get louder, was like nails on a chalkboard. "You've been a girl for, what, five hours, and you're already a feminist!"

I shot him a death glare, sighing as I stomped awkwardly around the hole, venting my frustration on the trapped Goolems. The poor creatures glared up at me, swinging their tiny fists in rage, but it was pointless. No monster had ever escaped one of my exploits.

***

[Goolem has been defeated x2. +150XP]
[Congratulations! You are now level 3! XP to next level: 200/450]
[Spell Group Heal unlocked.]
[You found a strange book. Goolem pool: 97/100]
[You found a crate of bottles.]

After a relentless onslaught, the Goolems finally succumbed to their injuries. One by one, they crumbled, leaving behind a modest loot pile. The book turned out to be an electric spell for mages, which thrilled Lucas. But even better was the leveling speed—truly miraculous. Still, after nearly dying laughing at the heel incident, he couldn't help but eye the mysterious crate with a touch of fear.

Please let it be mana elixirs, he thought, hoping for something practical. But when he identified it, his luck played a cruel trick—it was booze.

[You identified an item: Crate of Wines]

He chuckled, half-amused, half-resigned. Charlie-John had always been an enthusiastic drinker. At first, he'd found it funny, but John's love for alcohol had persisted well beyond high school. Not that Lucas hadn't enjoyed a good drink himself, but he was a lightweight compared to his friend's seemingly bottomless tolerance for whiskey and vodka.

John spent countless hours at that old Irish bar, either with Lucas or their high school crew—guys like Ian and the rest. He always had an excuse for his drinking, usually mumbling something about "social anxiety."

Nonsense. Lucas shook his head. He was just afraid, that's all. Talking to people isn't that hard. It's not like anyone was asking him to do something dangerous. You just talk, that's all. Only an excuse to drink, after all.

With a sigh, he passed the crate over to Charlie, trying not to let memories of "drunk John" cloud his image of her.

"Charlie... I think you'll love for sure."