Eni kept walking, mechanically taking sips from Bartolomeo's leather flask. The water was cool and gave her strength, but her body still needed rest. About two miles later, the landscape changed again: the path led to a massive rocky outcrop that served as a cyclops's lair. A huge one-eyed freak sat with his back to the road, noisily devouring sheep, their bones crunching in his mouth like dry branches.

  Not far from the shore, about five hundred yards out, a small island sat in the sea. Three houses clung to it. Eni didn't even look toward the cyclops — she was too exhausted to play hero. Her only goal was that patch of land. Gritting her teeth, she plunged into the cold water and swam across the strait.

  Once on the island, Eni silently began searching the area for any resources. In one of the abandoned buildings, her eyes fell on a strange, dusty scroll that emitted a faint shimmer. The moment her fingers touched the parchment, the silence in her head was torn apart by a sudden exclamation.

  "You've gained one skill point!" The Voice returned so abruptly that Eni flinched. "What will you choose? Will you walk the path of the Tank, the Mage, the Alchemist, the Summoner, the Chef, or the Runic Blademaster?"

  Eni froze, pressing her hand to her chest. "You scared me..." she exhaled, annoyed at his sudden appearance after the long silence.

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  She began going through the options. Some classes seemed completely absurd in this world of pain, but one resonated in her mind clearly and distinctly. Tank. The one who can withstand any blow. The one who can't be broken. "Tank. I choose Tank," she said firmly.

  "Good job! Congratulations!" The Voice sounded almost delighted. "You've become stronger!"

  Eni did feel a surge, but it wasn't the muscular strength she was used to. It was a strange feeling of density in her body, as if her skin had become tougher and her bones more solid.

  "And now that you're strong enough, I'm giving you your FIRST quest," the Voice announced with such importance it might as well have been demanding the overthrow of gods. "Make a fire."

  For Eni, this wasn't a problem. In less than five minutes, sparks from her flint lit the dry kindling, and a cheerful flame danced in the house's hearth. "Done," she muttered, taking another sip from her flask.

  "Oooh, well done!" The Voice practically choked with feigned gratitude. "I must reward you... Hmm... I know!"

  The next second, Eni felt a new wave of energy. "Now you're strong enough to wield that iron sword!"

  She reached into the spatial pocket under her uniform and pulled out the heavy blade. The sword, which had once strained her arm, now felt almost weightless, obedient like the old axe from the bunker. But Eni's thoughts were already elsewhere.

  She locked herself in the room and slowly pulled off her violet uniform. Before her lay the smith's gift. Eni put on the corset, feeling the cold metal against her skin. She began tightening the laces. Tighter. Even tighter. At some point, a distinct crack sounded — whether from the cords or her own ribs, she couldn't tell.

  A wave of sharp, burning arousal washed over her so suddenly that her legs gave way. She collapsed to her knees, breathing heavily and raggedly, pressing her palms against the metal squeezing her chest. This wasn't just restraint — it was power over her own weakness.

  After a few minutes, when the trembling in her body had subsided, she put the uniform back on over the corset. She was still shaking from this unfamiliar feeling of being "held together" when a furious, rattling yell erupted from outside:

  "WHAAAAT?! Who touch my whiskers?! Who dares enter my territory?!?!"