Effects Of A Gamer chapter 3

(Your advice on saving stats will be used. For The Celestial Smith readers you will please have to wait a bit. My work Appraisal is coming up. Gotta make sure i have a job before giving you all the fics you crave. Until then, enjoy.)

Arthur sat cross-legged on his bunk in the Alliance training facility, datapad in hand, absorbing information at a rate that would have been impossible for a normal human. The blue glow of the screen illuminated his face in the dimly lit room, casting sharp shadows across his features as he squinted at the text. His fingers tingled slightly from holding the device for hours without a break, and the faint smell of military-grade antiseptic that permeated all Alliance facilities burned in his nostrils.

A translucent window materialized before him, displaying his latest acquired trait:

[Galactic Scholar] – Level 10/10

"Your mind is wired into the very bones of Citadel law. You don't just follow the rules—you weaponize them."

• +25% success chance on legal appeals, bureaucratic interactions, and administrative bypasses.

• Unlocks [Legal Exploit I]: Once per mission, you can bypass a checkpoint, arrest, or restriction using obscure law.

• Gain a passive bonus to reputation with legal officials, diplomats, and political agents.

🔸 At max level: You could dismantle an entire government legally, turn Reaper signals into court evidence, or invoke laws no species remembers being passed.

The words seemed to burn themselves directly into his brain, each syllable connecting to neural pathways he hadn't even known existed. A rush of exhilaration flooded through him as knowledge settled into place – thousands of legal precedents, obscure statutes, and regulatory loopholes suddenly accessible as easily as breathing.

This is what it feels like to be a savant, he thought, heart racing with a mixture of wonder and apprehension.

Arthur barely had time to process this before another trait appeared, the interface chiming softly in his ears with a sound only he could hear:

[Xenobiologist (Advanced Trait)] – Level 10/10

"You instinctively recognize anatomy, biology, and evolutionary weaknesses of all known organic species."

• Reveals weak points on most alien species in combat (e.g., Turian air sacs, Salarian neural clusters, Krogan scar tissue).

• Grants +10% effectiveness on first-aid, toxins, and species-specific buffs/debuffs.

• Unlocks [Anatomical Scan I]: When scanning a living target, view vital stats, weak zones, and current biological state.

🔸 At max level: You can paralyze a Krogan with a single touch, clone an Asari's nervous system, or engineer antidotes to synthetic-organic viruses.

His mind filled with anatomical diagrams, evolutionary histories, and biological vulnerabilities. He suddenly understood the exact pressure point that would incapacitate a turian, how salarian metabolism processed toxins, and the precise location of secondary and tertiary organs in krogan physiology. The knowledge settled into his consciousness with an almost physical weight.

Christ, I could be the most dangerous assassin in the galaxy with this, he realized, a cold shiver running down his spine despite the room's regulated temperature.

The traits continued to appear one after another, each notification sending a jolt of electricity through his nervous system:

[Cultural Chameleon] – Level 10/10

"You walk through alien societies like one of their own. No gesture, phrase, or nuance escapes you."

• +15% diplomacy success chance with all Citadel species.

• Gain access to culture-specific dialogue and flirtation options (including rare or taboo ones).

• Immune to accidental offense in formal alien interactions.

🔸 At max level: You'll be able to walk into a Krogan Rite of Passage, pray with a Hanar, and drink tea with a Batarian noble—all in the same hour without offending a soul.

His mind filled with thousands of social cues – the subtle head tilt that signified respect among asari matriarchs, the specific finger positioning that differentiated a friendly salarian greeting from a territorial challenge, the precise vocal resonance that would make a turian see him as trustworthy rather than suspicious. Cultural nuances that diplomats spent decades learning were suddenly second nature to him.

I could walk through the Citadel like I've lived there my entire life, he thought, his breath catching in his throat. No one would ever suspect I'm just some human from Earth.

[Protocol Sync] – Level 10/10

"Your speech, posture, vocabulary, and etiquette adapt on the fly to match the cultural and political standards of your company."

• +10 rapport bonus in all formal interactions and first impressions.

• Auto-calibrates your body language and tone to match the listener's background.

• Unlocks [Context Filter I]: Your HUD highlights social cues, posture mistakes, and etiquette violations before you commit them.

🔸 At max level: You can mimic an Asari ambassador's poise, decode Elcor poetic undertones, or bluff your way into Spectre-only events.

Arthur felt his posture subtly shifting, his facial expressions becoming more nuanced, his vocal cords adjusting to produce tones that could convey multiple layers of meaning. It was as if his entire physical being had been recalibrated to become the perfect social instrument.

I'm becoming something beyond human, he thought, his internal voice wavering between awe and unease. Some kind of diplomatic super-weapon.

[Codex Archive] – Level 10/10

"Your HUD now contains a living, dynamic codex of every major Citadel race, culture, and protocol."

• Access instant, voice-activated information on any major species, law, history, or cultural rule.

• Unlocks [Social Scan I]: Scan any NPC to receive summary data: race, status, cultural affiliations, political alignment, and taboos.

🔸 At max level: You'll gain real-time counters to social manipulation, counter-lies, political scheming—and even Reaper-altered truth warping.

His vision overlaid with translucent data screens, ready to provide instant analysis of anyone he looked at. He could feel the weight of countless historical events, cultural touchstones, and sociopolitical developments settling into his memory – not as dry facts but as living, interconnected knowledge.

"Fuck," Arthur cursed under his breath, glancing toward the door to make sure no one had entered. The word felt harsh in the quiet room, the sudden sound making him flinch. "This is broken as hell."

He set the datapad down with shaking hands, running his fingers through his hair as he contemplated the implications. His scalp tingled with sensitivity, every nerve ending seemingly enhanced. Just two days of studying the material on his datapad, and he had somehow maxed out these traits. It was already drawing attention—his instructors had noticed how easily he absorbed information about Citadel races and protocols, often exchanging glances when he answered questions that even they were still learning.

They're suspicious, he realized, stomach churning with anxiety despite the Gamer's Mind trait keeping his emotions in check. No human should be able to learn this quickly.

"At this rate, I'll have to pretend to struggle just to avoid suspicion," he muttered, scrolling through the other notifications that had appeared. The sound of his thumb against the screen seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Just a day ago when he had decided to see what would happen if he studied other things...he hadn't been disappointed.

[Galactic Engineer] – Level 1/30

"You don't just fix things. You design the future."

You can draft, prototype, and construct advanced starships, habitats, and stations. From bulk freighters to stealth corvettes, anything you imagine, you can build—if you have the parts, the mind, and the time.

• You understand Citadel, Human, and Batarian ship frameworks.

• You gain access to blueprint generation based on observation and wreckage analysis.

• Basic construction tools appear in your HUD—3D schematics, volume displacers, system graphs.

At higher levels, you'll be able to build modular fleets, mobile factories, or hidden orbital stations.

His mind filled with ship designs and construction techniques, the knowledge settling like puzzle pieces clicking into place. He could suddenly visualize the precise curvature needed for optimal hull integrity, the exact power distribution systems that would maximize efficiency while minimizing heat signatures.

I could build ships that would make the Normandy look like a child's toy, he thought, his breath catching at the implications.

[Drive Architect] – Level 1/30

"Your grasp of faster-than-light propulsion borders on divine."

You can design and optimize mass effect cores, but more importantly—you're beginning to envision ships that don't need eezo at all.

• You can craft custom FTL cores, tuning jump profiles, stability, and efficiency.

• At higher levels, you unlock access to Warp Drive design—a field-based propulsion system that compresses space ahead and expands it behind your vessel, allowing true, non-relay FTL.

You'll eventually bypass element zero altogether, making you the first human capable of building ships that break Citadel FTL limitations—and evade galactic detection grids.

The principles of mass effect physics suddenly made intuitive sense, like remembering something he'd always known but temporarily forgotten. He could feel the equations forming in his mind, complex mathematical formulas that described how to bend space itself.

Travel without relays... without the Reapers' trap, he thought, his heart pounding with the magnitude of what this could mean for humanity's survival.

[Macro-Structural Vision] – Level 1/30

"You see planets not as obstacles, but as canvases."

You understand how to manipulate gravity, orbit, magnetics, and ecological systems on massive scales. You can design cities that wrap around moons, ringworlds that harvest stellar energy, and orbital megastructures that span continents.

• Create habitats, terraforming rigs, orbital elevators, megacities.

• Recognize fault lines, atmosphere thresholds, and radiation bands in real time.

• Lay the groundwork for Dyson swarms, rings, and hollow planetary vaults.

At high levels, you can build artificial planets, Prothean-grade artifacts, or generate your own artificial starfields.

Images of massive structures flooded his mind – orbital rings encircling planets, space elevators stretching from surface to sky, habitat rings that could house millions. The scale of what he could potentially create made him dizzy, his vision momentarily swimming with possibilities.

I could build sanctuaries that even the Reapers couldn't touch, he realized, his chest tight with both hope and fear.

[Planetary Defense Architect] – Level 1/30

"Your shields can stop gods—or worse."

You can design and install planetary-scale defenses: energy shields, mass cannon satellites, kinetic barriers, and interlinked orbital grids.

• You can synchronize global shield patterns with weather systems and orbital rotations.

• Install underground reactors that power defense stations across entire continents.

• Link anti-ship artillery to FTL early-warning systems.

At high levels, your shields can repel dreadnought bombardments, withstand solar flares, or protect cities from Reaper-level destruction.

The knowledge of defensive systems settled into his consciousness – layered shield harmonics, overlapping fields of fire, redundant power systems. He could visualize an Earth protected by barriers that would turn away even Reaper beams, the atmosphere itself becoming a weapon against invaders.

I could save them all, he thought, a lump forming in his throat. Every colony that falls in the games... I could protect them.

[Weaponsmith of the Void] – Level 1/30

"Your ships don't fire guns. They unleash nightmares."

You build devastating ship-based weapons: spinal-mounted cannons, antimatter accelerators, plasma lances, and mass-effect kinetic artillery.

• You can craft multi-tier turrets, torpedo racks, and fusion beam systems.

• Balance power draw, heat management, and firing arc optimization.

• Design energy-overload systems that convert incoming damage into weapon charge.

• At max rank, you can build black hole projectors, zero-point imploders, or reaper-scale energy scythes.

Weapon designs flashed through his mind – cannons that could tear through dreadnought armor like paper, energy weapons that would make the Thanix look like a child's toy. The precise calculations for focusing destructive force, containing antimatter reactions, harnessing dark energy – all of it suddenly made perfect sense.

I could build weapons that would make even the Reapers fear humanity, he thought, a chill running down his spine at the power suddenly at his fingertips.

[Armsmith Ascendant] – Level 1/30

"You don't carry weapons. You forge them."

You gain mastery over crafting handheld weapons of every kind—modern or ancient, energy-based or physical. You understand kinetic, plasma, laser, blade, and blunt-force mechanics at an instinctive level.

• Craft custom pistols, rifles, sniper systems, or heavy ordnance from scratch.

• Forge exotic blades, monomolecular edge weapons, gravity hammers, and electroshock batons.

• Create hybrid weapons—like a blade that stores thermal energy, or a gun that fires biotic pulses.

At max level, you can create soul-bound weaponry, programmable ammo types, and forge gear on par with Spectre or Reaper design.

The feel of weapons he'd never held became familiar – the perfect balance of a custom-crafted pistol, the precise trigger pull needed for a sniper rifle, the edge geometry of a blade that could slice through armor. His fingers twitched with muscle memory he'd never developed, his mind filling with designs for weapons that didn't yet exist.

I could arm an entire resistance with tech centuries ahead of its time, he thought, his hands curling into fists.

[Integrated Systems Mastery] – Level 1/30

"You don't just design ships—you design harmony between their souls."

You specialize in bringing all systems together—reactors, weapons, sensors, shields, drives, AIs, and life support. Your ships are not machines. They are ecosystems.

• Create dynamic energy redistribution that adapts to combat.

• Design autonomous repair protocols and predictive AI assistants.

• Master internal design: crew flow, emergency response, AI cores, grav-plating balance.

At max level, your ships can fight, think, repair, and evolve—without ever needing a pilot.

The holistic understanding of ship systems flooded his awareness – how power distribution affected weapon performance, how life support systems could be integrated with defensive capabilities, how AI cores could be designed to enhance rather than replace human decision-making. He could see ships not as collections of components but as living entities, every system interconnected in perfect harmony.

My ships would be more than machines, he realized. They'd be extensions of their crews, responsive and intuitive.

[Reverse-Engineer] – Level 1/30

"No device is unknowable. No tech is sacred."

Whenever you encounter alien or ancient technology, you can break it down, analyze it, and rebuild it in your own image.

• Learn from Prothean, Geth, Quarian, Reaper, or even unknown galactic tech.

• Unlock crafting blueprints simply by interacting with unknown machines.

• Deconstruct existing weapons or gear to improve your own.

At max level, you'll reverse-engineer mass relays, forge AI smarter than Reapers, or turn Reaper tech against its creators.

His mind filled with analytical frameworks, methods for breaking down unknown technologies into their component parts, understanding their functions, and recreating them with improvements. He could almost feel his perception shifting, allowing him to see beneath the surface of devices, understanding their inner workings at a glance.

Even Reaper tech would be an open book, he thought, a mixture of excitement and dread washing over him. I could understand their weaknesses, turn their own technology against them. Understand the knowledge of the advanced races they had reaped.

Arthur fell back onto his bunk, feeling like he'd been punched in the gut. The sheer scope of what the system was offering him was staggering. Not just knowledge or combat skills, but the ability to reshape galactic technology itself.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered, staring at the ceiling. "I could build weapons that could kill Reapers. Design ships that could outrun anything in Citadel space."

The implications were both thrilling and terrifying. With these engineering traits, he could potentially alter the entire timeline of the Mass Effect universe. Build defenses for Eden Prime before the geth attack. Design weapons that could take down Sovereign without sacrificing the Destiny Ascension. Create shields that could protect entire colonies from Collector attacks.

But first, he needed to survive C-Sec training without revealing just how abnormal he had become.

A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts. He quickly dismissed the floating windows with a mental command and called, "Come in."

Jason Hartley, one of his fellow recruits, stuck his head in. The blonde-haired man had an easy smile that belied his sharp intelligence. "Study group in the common room. Santana's threatening to quiz us on Krogan customs until we bleed."

Arthur nodded, grabbing his datapad. "On my way."

As they walked down the corridor, Jason glanced at him. "How do you do it, man? You're acing everything they throw at us. I've been staring at these Citadel laws for hours, and they still read like gibberish."

Arthur shrugged casually. "I've always had a good memory. Information just sticks."

"Bullshit," Jason laughed. "Nobody picks up alien legal codes that fast. What's your secret? Some kind of experimental Alliance memory enhancement?"

"If I had that, don't you think I'd share it?" Arthur deflected with a smile. "Especially with you, since you're about to fail the section on Krogan mating rituals."

Jason groaned. "Don't remind me. I'm tempted to just write 'fight everything' as the answer to every question."

They entered the common room where Santana Reyes was already waiting, datapads spread across the table. With her long black hair tied back in a practical ponytail and her intense brown eyes focused on her studies, she looked every bit the dedicated officer-in-training.

"About time," she said without looking up. "I was beginning to think you two had gotten lost on the way to becoming competent."

"Missed you too, Santana," Jason quipped, dropping into a chair across from her. "Arthur's agreed to help us mere mortals understand the incomprehensible mess that is galactic law."

Santana finally looked up, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied Arthur. Unlike Jason's good-natured ribbing, her scrutiny felt more calculating. "You know, it's almost suspicious how quickly you pick this stuff up. The instructors have noticed too."

Arthur maintained a neutral expression, though internally he cursed. He needed to be more careful. "I just focus well, that's all. And I've always been interested in alien cultures."

"Uh-huh," Santana replied skeptically. "Well, whatever your secret is, put it to good use. We've got a test on Citadel jurisdictional boundaries tomorrow, and I refuse to be outdone by Wilson's group."

The other seven recruits—all older, more experienced law enforcement or military personnel—had naturally formed their own clique. Led by former NYPD Detective Wilson, they tended to keep to themselves, though the division wasn't hostile. It was simply the natural grouping of like-minded individuals.

For the next hour, Arthur helped his companions prepare, deliberately holding back some information and occasionally pretending to struggle with concepts he had already mastered. His datapad beeped with a notification, followed by Jason's and Santana's.

"Great," Jason sighed, reading the message. "Five-mile run before combat training. Just what I needed after cramming legal codes all morning."

Arthur nodded, though his frustration was for a different reason—every minute spent running was a minute not spent studying and increasing his traits. Still, he knew physical training was important for maintaining his cover, if nothing else.

He mentally pulled up his normal stats.

• Strength: 13/50 You possess above-average physical power. You can wield heavier weapons, strike harder in melee, and shrug off recoil. Your close-quarters combat is imposing, and your carry weight has increased.

• Dexterity: 10/50 Your reflexes and agility are finely tuned. You react faster in firefights, land precise shots, and navigate obstacles, traps, or cover with ease. Advanced weapon handling becomes more viable.

• Endurance: 10/50 Your stamina and resilience have increased. You can fight, run, and endure harsh conditions longer. You resist fatigue, poison, and environmental hazards better than average.

• Intelligence: 10/50 Your mental acuity is sharp. You process data quickly, spot patterns in combat, and interface with alien systems easily. Unlocks higher-tier hacking, tech creation, and scientific analysis.

• Willpower: 10/50 Your mental resilience is strong. You're resistant to fear, manipulation, indoctrination, and psychic attacks. Your biotic focus stabilizes under pressure, enhancing control and power.

• Charisma: 9/50 You’re magnetic, convincing, and socially adaptable. You can sway groups, negotiate under fire, or win trust where others fail. Unlocks diplomatic traits, seduction lines, and leadership perks.

• Luck: 12/50 Fortune favors you. You encounter rare drops, survive situations you shouldn’t, and land critical hits more often than average. Events and hidden opportunities are drawn to your presence.

Within a week he had grown. As expected, repeated actions and learning had revealed to grow stats though, stat points would no doubt be still important to his quick growth.

"Let's get it over with," Santana said, rising from her chair with fluid grace. "Maybe the physical exertion will help the information sink in."

As they headed toward the locker rooms to change, Arthur mentally plotted his strategy. He'd need to be careful during physical training—perform well enough to avoid negative attention, but not so well that he stood out. His Gamer's Body trait gave him enhanced stamina and recovery, which could easily raise suspicions if he wasn't careful.

"You coming, Morrigan?" Jason called over his shoulder. "Or are you planning to levitate your way around the track using pure brainpower?"

Arthur snorted. "If I could do that, I'd be running the Alliance, not joining C-Sec."

"You'd be terrible at running the Alliance," Santana chimed in as they entered the locker room. "Too many rules to memorize."

Arthur changed quickly, the gray Alliance PT uniform feeling oddly comfortable despite his mental resistance to the training. As he laced up his running shoes, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Same face he'd been wearing for weeks now—strong jawline, blue eyes that seemed to hold more knowledge than they should, dark hair cut to military precision. Yet behind those eyes was a consciousness that had lived another life entirely, one where this world was just a game.

The midday sun beat down mercilessly on the training field as the ten C-Sec recruits completed their five-mile run. Arthur paced himself meticulously, fighting his body's natural urge to surge ahead of the pack. His enhanced physique practically begged to be unleashed, but he deliberately held back, staying firmly in the middle of the group. During a water break, he even manufactured a convincing sheen of sweat by discreetly splashing water on his face and neck, feeling the coolness trickle down his skin in stark contrast to the burning heat of the sun overhead.

"Damn, Morrigan," Wilson panted beside him as they finished the final lap, his breath coming in ragged gasps that Arthur could almost feel in his own chest. "You're barely winded. What's your secret?"

Arthur shrugged, deliberately taking deeper breaths than necessary, feeling the warm air fill his lungs unnecessarily. "Regular cardio. Nothing special." The lie tasted stale on his tongue.

Their drill sergeant, a hard-faced veteran named Martinez whose weathered skin told stories of countless deployments, barked orders for them to assemble in the main training hall after a fifteen-minute break. His voice carried across the field like a whip crack, making several recruits flinch involuntarily.

"They're trying to kill us before we even get to the Citadel," Jason groaned as they trudged toward the showers, the smell of sweat and dust clinging to them. His shirt was soaked through, plastered against his skin. "Death by exhaustion—not the heroic end I had in mind." The bitterness in his voice couldn't quite mask the underlying exhaustion.

Santana rolled her eyes, her ponytail swinging with the motion. "This is nothing. You should see what they put recruits through at the police academy back in L.A." Despite her bravado, Arthur noticed the slight tremor in her hands as she unscrewed her water bottle.

I could run another twenty miles without breaking a sweat, Arthur thought to himself, the knowledge both exhilarating and isolating. This body is becoming a weapon, and nobody can know.

After quick showers—the cold water a blessed relief against their heated skin—and changing into fresh training gear that smelled of industrial detergent, the recruits assembled in the large training room. The polished floor gleamed under the harsh lights, and the air held a faint scent of disinfectant and old sweat. Sergeant Martinez stood at the front with a powerfully built man in standard Alliance PT attire, whose presence seemed to fill more space than his physical form warranted.

"Listen up," Martinez barked, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. "Command has arranged a special treat for you today. This is David Ronan, N5 designation. He'll be conducting hand-to-hand combat training and assessment."

A collective groan rippled through the group, the sound of impending doom. Arthur felt the vibration of it in his chest, a shared moment of dread that quickly dissipated under Martinez's withering glare.

"Oh come on," Jason muttered under his breath, close enough that only Arthur could hear. "We're going to get our asses handed to us." The resignation in his voice was palpable.

Ronan stepped forward, his movements fluid and controlled, like a predator comfortable in its skin. His voice rolled through the room, deep and commanding. "C-Sec officers often find themselves in situations where firearms aren't an option. Today, I'll be evaluating your hand-to-hand capabilities and providing some basic techniques that might save your lives one day."

The scent of anticipation—and fear—permeated the room as Ronan demonstrated several combat maneuvers. The sharp slap of flesh against the training mats punctuated his explanations. Arthur watched intently, his mind cataloging each movement, each technique, storing them away with perfect recall. The recruits paired off to practice, grunts and occasional yelps of pain filling the air as they attempted to replicate what they'd seen.

After thirty minutes, their clothes damp with fresh sweat and muscles already complaining, Ronan announced that he would spar with each recruit individually. Arthur's stomach tightened with apprehension—not fear of the combat, but fear of revealing too much.

I need to lose convincingly without looking incompetent, he thought, formulating a strategy. Middle of the pack. Average. Forgettable.

One by one, the recruits faced Ronan. The sound of bodies hitting the mat became a rhythmic accompaniment to the afternoon, along with the gasps of exertion and occasional curses. As Jason had predicted, most were quickly overwhelmed, the disparity in skill painfully obvious. Even Wilson, with his police combat experience, lasted only forty seconds before being taken down with a precise sweep to the legs. The whoosh of air leaving his lungs as he hit the mat made several recruits wince in sympathy.

Santana performed better than most, her movements quick and unpredictable. Her agility and street-fighting background allowed her to evade several of Ronan's initial attacks, the whisper of fabric as she twisted away from his grasp almost graceful. She even landed a solid strike to his midsection—the dull thud drawing appreciative murmurs from the onlookers—before he countered with a complex grappling move that left her pinned to the mat, the air heavy with tension.

"Good instincts," Ronan acknowledged as he helped her up, his voice carrying genuine approval. "With proper training, you could be formidable."

Finally, it was Arthur's turn. The mat felt springy beneath his feet as he stepped forward, the material giving slightly with each step. As he moved into position, he noticed that more observers had entered the room—several of their other instructors and what appeared to be high-ranking Alliance officers were now watching from the sidelines. Their presence added weight to the air, making it feel thicker, more consequential.

Great. An audience. Just what I needed, Arthur thought, his heart rate increasing slightly despite his Gamer's Mind keeping his anxiety in check.

"Ready when you are," Ronan said, settling into a balanced stance, his eyes alert and evaluating.

Arthur nodded, adopting a basic defensive posture. As Ronan launched his first attack—a probing jab that cut through the air with precision, followed by a feint—Arthur felt something strange happen. The world around him seemed to slow, sounds becoming muffled as if underwater. His vision sharpened, focusing with unnatural clarity on every minute movement of his opponent. A translucent blue status window materialized in his field of vision:

COMBAT INITIATED

Player: Arthur Morrigan (Level 5)

Health: 1500/1500

Opponent: David Ronan (N5 Operative)

Health: 3000/3000

Shit, Just by his health he's twice as strong as me, Arthur realized, the disparity sending a jolt of genuine concern through him. But there was no time to dwell on it. Ronan's fist was already closing in, the air whistling softly around it. Acting on instinct enhanced by his system, Arthur swayed just enough to avoid the blow, feeling it pass millimeters from his cheek, then blocked the follow-up strike that most recruits had fallen for. The impact of forearm against forearm sent a vibration up his arm, a physical reminder of the power behind Ronan's attack.

Ronan's eyebrows raised slightly, the only indication of his surprise. The subtle shift in his expression spoke volumes. He increased his tempo, launching a combination of strikes that would have overwhelmed any normal recruit. The sound of his movements became a continuous flow—fabric rustling, feet pivoting on the mat, the soft exhalation of controlled breath. But Arthur's perception was enhanced, his body responding with unnatural precision. He blocked, dodged, and countered with growing confidence, each movement flowing into the next like water.

I'm revealing too much, a distant part of his mind warned, but the thrill of the combat was taking over, pushing that caution aside.

The sparring match continued, with Ronan gradually escalating the difficulty. The N5 operative's attacks became more complex, more unpredictable, but Arthur matched him move for move. He could smell Ronan's sweat now, could hear the slight change in his breathing pattern as exertion began to take its toll.

After six minutes of increasingly intense combat, Arthur began to go on the offensive. He landed a series of precise strikes, each one accompanied by the satisfying feedback of impact—the dull thud of knuckles against muscle, the sharp exhalation of forced breath. In his HUD, he watched as each successful hit chipped away at Ronan's health bar. The N5 operative's expression shifted from professional assessment to focused concentration, his eyes narrowing slightly as he found himself genuinely challenged.

The recruits watching from the sidelines had fallen silent, their initial cheers giving way to stunned disbelief. The atmosphere in the room had transformed from routine training to something electric, charged with the unexpected. Arthur was vaguely aware that Sergeant Martinez had left and returned with additional officers, their whispered conversations creating a background hum of speculation, but he remained focused on the fight, on the rhythm of attack and defense.

Suddenly, the world around him froze completely. Sound ceased, motion stopped, even the dust motes hanging in the air became suspended in time. A blue notification window appeared before him, glowing with an inner light that cast ethereal shadows across his vision:

🥋 [Max Trait: Mixed Martial Arts] – Level 5/10

"You are trained in hand-to-hand combat across multiple disciplines. Your body remembers every strike, hold, and throw—your enemies won't."

You've reached an advanced level in integrating Muay Thai, Boxing, Jiu-Jitsu, Krav Maga, and Wrestling into a seamless, instinctive fighting style. Your strikes are practiced, your defense reactive, and your close-quarters instincts sharp.

• This trait passively improves your unarmed effectiveness, counter reflexes, and combat flow as it levels.

• Level 5 marks you as a dangerous hand-to-hand combatant, capable of disarming, disabling, or defeating most unarmored opponents—even some lightly armored ones—without drawing a weapon.

• Progresses further through real combat, sparring, training simulations, and defeating enemies without using firearms or powers.

Holy shit, the system is upgrading me mid-fight! Arthur thought, a mixture of exhilaration and alarm flooding through him.

Time resumed with a rush of sound and sensation, and Arthur felt a surge of knowledge and muscle memory integrate into his consciousness. It was like suddenly remembering skills he'd practiced for years—the perfect angle of a strike, the ideal moment to shift weight, the exact pressure needed to control an opponent. Without conscious thought, his body shifted into a more advanced stance, his movements becoming even more fluid and precise, as natural as breathing.

Ronan launched a powerful combination, the air crackling with the speed of his strikes, but Arthur countered perfectly. He blocked the initial strike, the impact sending a satisfying jolt up his arm, parried the second with a flick of his wrist that seemed to know exactly where to be, and then executed a flawless spinning kick that caught Ronan square in the chest. The solid thump of impact reverberated through the room, and Arthur could feel the resistance of muscle and bone against his foot. The impact sent the N5 operative stumbling backward, momentarily off-balance, his boots squeaking against the mat as he struggled to regain his footing.

I should stop now, Arthur thought distantly, but his body was moving on its own, driven by the new skills flooding his system.

Arthur pressed his advantage, flowing through a series of strikes that felt like a dance his body had always known. Each movement flowed seamlessly into the next, creating a symphony of controlled violence that culminated in a sweeping leg maneuver. He felt Ronan's weight shift, felt the moment of vulnerability, and exploited it perfectly. The operative hit the mat with a solid thud that seemed to echo in the suddenly silent room. Before Ronan could recover, Arthur had already assumed a perfect finishing stance, completing the demonstration with a textbook martial arts kata that his muscles executed with flawless precision.

The room fell silent—a profound, stunned silence that seemed to have physical weight. Arthur suddenly became acutely aware of every eye on him—the stunned expressions of his fellow recruits, their mouths slightly open in disbelief; the calculating gazes of the Alliance officers, sharp with speculation; and the intense scrutiny of Sergeant Martinez, whose narrowed eyes suggested he was reassessing everything he thought he knew about Arthur Morrigan.

Shit, he thought, his heart sinking as he realized the magnitude of his error. I've revealed far too much. There's no explaining this away.

He quickly extended a hand to help Ronan up, forcing a nervous smile that felt brittle on his face. "Sorry if I got carried away." His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the silent room.

Ronan accepted the help, rising to his feet with a wince that suggested Arthur's strikes had done more damage than intended. "That was... unexpected," he said, studying Arthur with newfound respect, his eyes probing as if trying to see beneath the surface. "The sergeant didn't mention we had an N7 in disguise among the recruits."

"I'm not—" Arthur began, his mind racing for an explanation, any explanation that might sound remotely plausible. But Sergeant Martinez cut him off.

"He's not N7," the sergeant said firmly, though doubt colored his tone. "Just a standard C-Sec recruit." The emphasis on "standard" carried clear skepticism.

Ronan snorted in disbelief, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "With all due respect, Sergeant, I've trained with special forces from every branch. He fights at that level, minimum." The certainty in his voice left no room for argument.

The gathered officers were whispering among themselves now, the soft hiss of their conversations filling the room with speculation. Arthur could feel his carefully constructed normalcy crumbling around him like a sand castle hit by a wave. He needed to provide an explanation—fast—before the questions became too pointed, too impossible to deflect.

"I took some kung-fu lessons as a teenager," he offered with a self-deprecating chuckle that sounded hollow even to his own ears. "Guess it stuck better than I thought." The excuse hung in the air, flimsy and unconvincing.

The skeptical expressions around the room confirmed that no one was buying it. Ronan's eyes narrowed slightly, and he exchanged a meaningful glance with one of the senior officers—a silent communication that spoke volumes.

"Kung-fu, huh?" Ronan said, clearly unconvinced, his tone making it clear he knew bullshit when he heard it. "Well, whatever your background, that was impressive work. You've got natural talent." The word "natural" carried heavy irony.

Sergeant Martinez cleared his throat, the sound sharp and authoritative. "Alright, that's enough for today. Hit the showers and report to the classroom at 1600 for your legal ethics session." His tone was brisk, but his eyes lingered on Arthur with newfound intensity.

As the recruits dispersed, their footsteps and murmured conversations creating a rising tide of sound, Arthur felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Jason, his expression a mixture of awe and suspicion, his fingers digging in slightly as if to ensure Arthur couldn't escape the coming questions.

"Dude, what the actual fuck was that?" he whispered, his breath warm against Arthur's ear. "You moved like something out of a vid. Since when can you fight like that?" The disbelief in his voice was tinged with something else—wariness, perhaps even a hint of fear.

"I got lucky," Arthur replied lamely, knowing how inadequate the explanation was. "Adrenaline, I guess." He could feel cold sweat forming on his back, unrelated to the physical exertion.

Santana appeared at his other side, her presence like a second interrogator closing in. Her eyes were sharp with analysis, missing nothing. "That wasn't luck, Arthur. That was training. High-level training." She lowered her voice further, the words barely audible above the background noise. "Are you some kind of undercover operative? Alliance Intelligence, maybe?" The question hung between them, laden with implications.

Arthur's mind raced through possible responses, discarding each as too implausible or too revealing. "I'm just a guy trying to become a C-Sec officer," he insisted, though he could see in their eyes that neither of them believed him. The weight of their skepticism was almost tangible. "Can we drop it? Please?" He injected just enough discomfort into his voice to sound genuinely uncomfortable with the attention.

Jason raised his hands in mock surrender, though his eyes remained watchful. "Sure, sure. Your secret's safe with us, Ninja Man." The nickname carried a lightness that his expression didn't share.

As they headed for the showers, the smell of sweat and tension following them, Arthur caught sight of Sergeant Martinez in deep conversation with two of the Alliance officers who had observed the match. All three were looking in his direction, their expressions serious, heads bent together in what was clearly not casual conversation. The pit in Arthur's stomach deepened.

So much for keeping a low profile, Arthur thought grimly, a cold sense of foreboding washing over him. His cover story was already falling apart, shredding like tissue paper in a rainstorm, and they hadn't even left Earth yet. Every instinct told him he was now on their radar—a mystery to be solved, an anomaly to be investigated. He would need to be much more careful going forward—and perhaps develop a more convincing backstory to explain his unusual abilities. Otherwise, his mission might end before it truly began.

I've got to find a way to dial it back, he thought, feeling the weight of scrutiny settling on his shoulders like a physical burden. Before they decide I'm too useful to send to the Citadel at all.