Maluck did a weird kind of hop-step shuffle as he entered the hotel lobby, trying to scrape off the last remnants of dog shit from his boot without making it obvious. He’d done his best outside, but some of it still clung stubbornly, like it had a personal vendetta against him.
He approached the front desk. “Uh, any chance I can get a newspaper or something? I stepped on something outside.”
The front desk clerk, ever the pinnacle of customer service, made a sympathetic face. “Oh, that’s awful! Don’t worry, we’ll take care of that for you right away.”
Maluck waved a hand dismissively. “No worries, wasn’t your fault.”
The clerk assumed he was just being polite, but no—Maluck genuinely didn’t blame them. If anything, he blamed the cosmic forces that had spent his entire life ensuring he was a magnet for canine landmines. He was the king of collecting dog shit on his boots.
The clerk handed him a newspaper. “Here, just wrap them up and leave them outside your door. We’ll have them cleaned and polished.”
Maluck paused. “Wait, seriously?”
“Of course! We provide complimentary shoe cleaning for long-term guests.”
Maluck blinked. ‘Why would anyone live anywhere else? This place is great!’
At this point, he was starting to question why he even bothered keeping his apartment back in Edmonton. What did he have waiting for him there? A mediocre living space filled with too much junk and too many bad memories? Sure, rent was cheap, but it wasn’t like he needed to be there.
Originally, he was only going to extend his stay by two days. But now?
Hell with it.
He looked at the clerk. “Actually, I love my room. Can I extend for a month?”
The clerk barely managed to keep the surprise off his face. ‘A whole month?’ That was fantastic—turning a one-day guest into a long-term customer helped their bonuses.
“Yes, sir! I’ll update your reservation right away.”
Maluck nodded in satisfaction. ‘Life is good.’
Unwilling to track any extra filth onto the pristine hotel carpet, he bent down and yanked off his boots right there in the lobby, wrapping them in the newspaper. He wasn’t even embarrassed—he was rich(ish) now. Rich people did weird stuff all the time.
Socks on, boots off, he padded barefoot to the elevator, enjoying the plush carpet under his feet as he headed up to his room.
Once inside, he flopped onto the bed and opened his System stat sheet. So much had changed in just one day. He needed to take it all in.
STATS
Luck Level: 2 (0/200)
Unfortunate – Your toast lands butter-side down. On your last clean shirt.
Bad Luck Points (BP): 57
Luck Points (LP): 108
Strength (Str): 1.07
Intelligence (Int): 1.15
Charisma (Cha): 1.01
Health (HP): 0.99
Dexterity (Dex): 1.02
Wisdom (Wis): 1.11
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Constitution (Con): 1.02
Endurance (End): 1.05
Perception (Per): 1.11
INVENTORY
Bad Luck Bracelet
The Probability Charm – While wearing it, any event you want to happen gets a 10% boost in probability. Stacks with other Luck items.
The Luck Siphon Stone – When touched to someone, it sucks off their luck and adds it to your own. (Recharging)
The Appraiser’s Lens – A device that spots hidden value and potential in objects, investments… and even people. (Recharging)
Tasks to be completed: [System Task Issued] You’ve found undiscovered potential. Someone with hidden talent is standing right in front of you, and they don’t even know it.
Maluck whistled. ‘Not bad. Not bad at all.’
***
After lounging on his bed for a while, staring at his stat sheet and reflecting on the whirlwind of events over the past couple of days, Maluck had a realization—there was nothing stopping him from improving his stats manually. Sure, he had luck on his side now, but why not put in some real effort too? The hotel had a great gym, and since he was planning to stay for a month, he might as well make use of it.
It wasn’t like he was a stranger to working out. His military days had kept him in shape, though he had definitely slacked off since. Now that he wasn’t constantly fighting off an avalanche of bad luck, maybe he could actually build some strength without a dumbbell mysteriously slipping out of his grip and smashing his foot.
Feeling motivated, he changed into his workout clothes and hit the gym, putting in a solid hour and a half of weight training, cardio, and some core exercises. He even pushed himself harder than usual, expecting the System to reward his effort with some kind of stat boost.
After his last set, sweaty and exhausted, he pulled up his stats.
Nothing.
No increase in Strength. No tiny bump in Endurance. Not even a pity boost in Constitution.
“…Seriously?” he muttered, wiping his face with a towel.
He had half-expected some kind of ‘Congratulations! You are now 0.01% less weak!’ message, but nope.
[System Response] “Stat growth through training requires consistent effort over time. One session is insufficient to trigger a measurable increase.”
Maluck groaned. “So what, I have to work out regularly to see results? What kind of scam is this?”
[System Response] “Correct.”
He let out a long, defeated sigh before plopping down on a nearby bench. Of course. He should’ve known the System wouldn’t just hand out stat increases like candy. Apparently, even with cosmic-level luck, some things still required actual effort.
Still, it wasn’t a complete loss. His body felt good—better than it had in a while—and his mind was clearer. If nothing else, it’d be good to get back into shape.
And who knows? Maybe after a few sessions, the System would decide to reward him.
Maluck made a determined face. “Alright, fine. I’ll play your little ‘work hard for gains’ game… for now.”
***
After his workout, Maluck headed back to his room, took a long, satisfying shower, and decided to indulge in another round of room service. He had gotten seriously addicted to it. Something about a luxury hotel delivering food straight to his door made him feel like an emperor—or at the very least, someone who had his life together.
Since he was on his ‘getting in shape’ kick, he opted for something healthier—a high-protein chicken breast salad with dressing on the side. No sad, limp lettuce for him. When it arrived, it looked fantastic—grilled chicken perfectly sliced, crisp romaine, shaved parmesan, crunchy croutons, and a dressing that actually smelled good instead of like old vinegar.
He dug in, feeling smug about his responsible life choices.
Then, halfway through the meal, he realized something—he had forgotten to order a drink.
Annoyed, he got up and checked the mini-fridge.
There it was. The overpriced hellscape of hotel beverages. The first night was free. But even the Emerald Crown Hotel & Spa couldn’t comp free minibar forever.
A single can of soda: $6.
He scowled. Sure, he was rolling in cash, but six freaking dollars? Absolutely not. Even if he had millions, he still wouldn’t pay that on principle.
Grumbling, he left his room, walked down the hall barefoot in sweatpants and a T-shirt, and made his way to the vending machine. He punched in the code for his usual Grepsi Cola, ready to enjoy his usual sugar rush—
And then he stopped.
‘Wait.’
His brain flicked to an idea.
This was an opportunity.
Instead of buying his usual, he selected Koala Kola.
Not just one—three of them.
Because it was time to test something.
Grabbing the cans, he marched back to his room, lined them up like little soda soldiers on the desk, and cracked them open one by one.
First tab: “Sorry, try again.”
Second tab: “Sorry, try again.”
Third tab: “Sorry, try again.”
Perfect.
Most people would be pissed off. Most people would swear, curse the vending machine, or mutter about corporate scams.
But Maluck?
He was grinning.
Because at the same time he was checking his drink tabs, he was watching his Bad Luck Points.
And sure enough—his BP had dropped by three.
Bad Luck Points (BP) 56
“Hell. Yes.”
This was exactly the proof he needed—his Bad Luck Points weren’t just some passive curse. He could spend them. Burn them off in small, manageable ways. Instead of waiting around for fate to throw some disaster his way, he could control his misfortune.
And all it cost him was the price of three garbage sodas.
This was huge.
He took a victory sip of his totally worth it, not-even-close-to-winning Koala Kola.
It tasted like artificial cola bliss.
And for once? Losing all three winning chances?
He didn’t mind.
***
