"Okay, Flake," I mumbled, pacing around my cell. "It's okay. Sure, you've lost three or four lives of progress, but it's fine. You've even got a new class to replace the lost one! Everything is gonna be fine. And, hey, maybe you'll even find your spear somewhere in the keep! You might even get your class back if you use it! Your hard-earned, piece-of-your-soul class that took goddess knows how long to get. It's fine. It's fine."

I stopped pacing, facing the wall with the only window up in the corner. My eyes bore into the cracked stone brick that made up the donjon. The brick didn't cower in fear under my glare. It just sat there. Mocking me.

Growling in frustration, I [Punched] the wall, forcing every bit of the Skill into my fist as I could. My knuckles slammed into the worn stone, coming to a hard stop. And then came the pain. My knucklebone cracked under the force of the hit; a small piece of bone had torn through the skin. I tensed up, eyes watering as I slowly pulled my hand back. I didn't dare unclench my fist, meekly trying to push the out-of-place bone back inside my hand. The following shock of pain stopped me.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You do NOT punch a FREAKING STONEWALL when your stats have JUST RESET.

I cursed my idiocy all the way back to my cot, where I carefully laid down on my back with my broken hand resting against my stomach. With nothing better to do than wait for my hand to heal, I forced my body to rest.

I woke up to a notification. It was nothing special, only telling me that I gained +1 VIT for making a physical recovery unaided. However, it got me thinking. Did that mean if I continued to get hurt and waited for my body to heal naturally, my VIT would increase?

Flexing my hand, I felt a twinge of pain coming from the knuckle. But such pain was merely an obstacle to achieving great strength. It might hurt, but I'd essentially be killing two birds with one stone: leveling [Punch] and training my VIT.

I rolled off of my too-small cot, bare feet slapping against the cold ground. I miss my boots. Padding over to the wall where I broke my hand before, I mentally prepared myself for some intense physical training. I [Punched] the wall lightly the first time. It still hurt but nothing broke. I used my other hand to [Punch], a little harder. Again, nothing too bad.

Am I some sort of masochist? I thought. I mean, no one would willingly put themselves through this just to get stronger right?

Coward. I bet Rella and Wing would have no problem with this.

Well, that settled it. There was no way I was going to get shown up by a pair of female giants.

Prisoner Jamarco groaned as the sound of muffled cries of pain and thunderous punching reached his ears. He was trying to sleep for Johanna's sake! Who the heck was making so much noise this early in the morning? Actually, he didn't quite know what time it was. He'd been down here for so long...

He shook his head, swinging his beaded locs from side to side. The pleasant whooshing sound cleared the melancholy thoughts from his mind. Now wasn't the time to be sad! He'd spent his years as a political prisoner sleeping his hopelessness away and he wasn't gonna let some upstart inmate ruin that for him!

Rising to his feet, he wobbled over to his cell bars. Prisoner Jamarco had since let his leg muscles reach near-atrophy during his fifth year in the donjon. Since freedom frequently escaped his grasp, why not laze about in a rickety cot and stare at a wall? Might be a severely broken line of thinking, but Prisoner Jamarco was a very broken man.

He leaned against the bars, peering through the gaps to try and catch a glimpse of the noisy inmate. The ingenious designers of the donjon thought they could limit potential escapees from conspiring with others if they couldn't see them, hence the zigzag pattern of cells n this block. For the most part, it worked.

"'Eh, mon!" he called. "Mi tryin' tuh sleep here! Kip it dung there!"

To Prisoner Jamarco's pleasure, the noises stopped. He huffed in satisfaction and turned back around. And then a deep yet somewhat hesitant voice called, "Who's out there?"

Scowling, the decrepit old man, fell back against the cell bars. "It Prisona Jamarco! Now shaddup!"

He waited for the voice to respond but the other man had gotten the hint. He shuffled back to his cot and carefully lowered his skinny body onto the thin, scratchy bedding.

Peace, at last, he thought.

Then the punching began yet again.