I Got Reincarnated With The Ultimate Suffering System

Earth – Before Death

Quinn didn’t believe in happy endings. Or happy middles. Or even happy breakfasts.

At twenty-two, he had three part-time jobs and zero hope. He scraped through twelve-hour shifts, came home to a room that smelled like mildew and loneliness, and woke up the next day wondering why he bothered. The wallpaper peeled like old skin. The ceiling dripped when it rained. A rat had made a nest inside his stove two weeks ago and now refused to move out.

He hadn’t cooked a meal since then.

His bed was a mattress on the floor. His window wouldn’t shut properly, so mosquitoes held night raids on his ankles. The heater hadn’t worked since February. Now it was November, and the cold sank into his bones like grief.

But he’d gotten used to that.

The grief.

The silence.

The cold.

His mother had been the only thing warm in his life.

A nurse. Overworked and underpaid. But always kind.

She used to hum when folding laundry. She would gently tap his wrist when he stared at screens too long. Every Sunday morning, even when the power was out, she’d boil water and hand him tea with just enough sugar and a cracked smile.

“I know life’s not as sweet as you’d like it to be,” she’d whisper, “so I’ll make this one moment taste like it is.”

Then came the diagnosis that completely turned his world upside down.

Stage four cancer.

She withered fast, her cheeks sinking, hair falling, breath shortening. Quinn was young, still naive enough to believe that if he just stayed strong, the universe would return the favor.

It didn’t.

He remembered kneeling by her hospital bed, barely eighteen, promising her he’d finish school. That he’d find a way to become someone she’d be proud of.

She smiled and told him she already felt super proud of him.

She died six months later. Alone, on a metal hospital bed, after the night shift nurse forgot to check her oxygen level in time.

He remembered the call. The silence after the word “dead.”

He hadn’t cried. Not until a week later, when he reached for a teacup in the cabinet and found a note inside, folded twice:

“Make something sweet today, my boy. Even if the world’s bitter.”

That was the last time he ever boiled water for tea.

He dropped out a year later.

The world didn’t care about promises made to dead people.

His father? Quinn had never met him.

Just a name on a birth certificate and a monthly welfare check that stopped two years after his mother died.

He only has coworkers who forgot his name, neighbors who forgot his face, and a landlord who never forgot rent day.

He used to dream of writing books. Wild ones. Fantasy worlds. System novels. He knew them all… Rebirth: Trash Tier to God King, My System Hates Me but Makes Me OP, Suffering Equals Stats, and that one weird one about the guy who grew stronger every time he stubbed his toe.

He used to laugh and think, If I ever got a system, I’d finally be someone awesome.

But real life didn’t give systems.

It gave you overdue bills, damp socks, and hunger headaches.

And Quinn?

Quinn was tired.

That particular night, Quinn stepped out of the back door of the noodle shop with a cup of instant ramen in hand and his hoodie already clinging to his soaked shoulders. His shoes squelched with every step. Holes in the soles. He’d duct-taped them twice this week.

He found shelter beneath the metal awning in the alley behind the shop, crouched down on a crate, and ate in silence. The steam from the cup fogged up his glasses. He let it. The warmth was temporary, but he took what he could get.

A single streetlamp flickered nearby. Somewhere, a cat yowled.

Quinn stared out at the puddle-streaked road, ramen halfway finished.

It would’ve been just another night.

If not for the scooter.

He didn’t even see it at first.

He heard it, an electric whine cutting through the downpour like a banshee.

Then tires screeching.

Then the sharp, high-pitched bzzzt! of a GPS unit glitching out.

Then…

There was a sudden impact.

The delivery scooter launched off the curb like it had been flung by fate.

Straight into Quinn’s face.

The last thing he saw was the logo: “FoodFast – We Deliver at Warp Speed!”

Then everything went black.

Then it wasn’t black anymore.

It was white.

An endless, empty kind of white, it was too bright to be a dream, and too quiet to be real.

Quinn floated. Or maybe he was standing. It was hard to tell without gravity.

He blinked.

“…Well, that’s strange,” he muttered.

His voice echoed, like someone had copied it and whispered it back at him from a mile away.

No answer came.

It was just the silence.

He crossed his arms. “So. This is it, huh? I’m dead? Just like that?”

He looked around. The void didn’t answer.

A part of him was surprised. A bigger part wasn’t.

He’d always figured if the afterlife existed, it wouldn’t include angels or harps. Just some vaguely judgmental light and a long waiting list.

Then came the flicker.

Faint at first. A blue spark in the distance.

Then a ripple in the void, like someone had dropped a pebble into the infinite.

Quinn narrowed his eyes.

“... what’s happening?”

A glowing panel of light snapped into existence in front of him. Lines of digital text scrolled like some sort of cosmic tutorial.

[Ding! Welcome, Host.]

[You have been selected by the ULTIMATE SUFFERING SYSTEM™. Congratulations!]

Quinn blinked. “…What?”

Quinn stared at the message.

Slowly, a smile curved on his face. It was a dry, exhausted amusement.

“…A system?” he said, almost to himself. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

He scratched his temple. “I mean, I’ve read like fifty of these. Trash-tier protagonist dies tragically, gets a system, wakes up in a new world. The usual.”

He eyed the floating screen.

“…Except I died to a scooter.”

The system pinged again, unbothered.

[Scanning soul… complete! Misery Index: 98%. Sarcasm Levels: Unstable. Cosmic Compatibility: Perfect!]

He looked around. Empty space stretched infinitely in all directions.

“Who are you?”

[I am your system. My goal is to guide you toward transcendence.]

“Oh. That sounds—”

[—through unimaginable, soul-ripping, bowel-clenching suffering. Welcome aboard!]

He blinked again. “I died after being hit by a scooter. Haven’t I suffered enough?”

[Please prepare for transmigration. You will now be inserted into your new world.]

“Wait—can I at least ask what genre we’re doing? Cultivation? Apocalypse? Dungeon ranking?”

[Activating Emergency Ejection Protocol.]

“...That's not a genre.”

Then the void began to spin.

Quinn staggered. “Wait—what if I refuse?!”

[Refusal registered. Activating Emergency Ejection Protocol.]

“WHAT?!”

[Good luck, fungus!]

Crash Landing

He hit the ground face-first.

Again.

Something warm and sticky oozed near his cheek.

The smell of manure hit him like a slap.

He opened his eyes slowly and read the massive wooden sign inches from his face:

WELCOME TO WULAN OUTER SECT – THE PATH TO IMMORTALITY BEGINS HERE!

He winced. “Don’t tell me this is a….”

[Ding! Welcome to your new cultivation world. You have been reborn as a low-tier servant of Wulan Sect. Starting class: Human Fungus.]

Then whispered, deadpan:

“…Yep. Cultivation novel.”

“Wait, what the hell is Human Fungus?”

[You are slightly lower than moss.]

He, Quinn Matthews, a ramen-slurping, rent-dodging nobody from a moldy apartment had actually reincarnated. Into a cultivation world. With a system.

And the system had just called him human fungus.

Not dragon-blooded. Not chosen one. Not even “trash with hidden potential.”

Fungus.

He groaned into the mud. “God, I should’ve just died.”

Somewhere nearby, a voice snickered. “Hey, look at that one! The newbie already face down in pig crap!”

Quinn cracked one eye open. Through manure-smeared lashes, he saw three teens in gray disciple robes walking by. Not much older than he was, but clean. Sharp-eyed. Radiating smug superiority.

“Guess they’re accepting anyone into the sect now,” one of them said.

“Bet he can’t even carry a bucket without falling over,” said another.

They laughed and walked off, muttering something about fungus boy.

Quinn sat up slowly. He looked down at himself—scratchy hemp robes, straw sandals, bruised dignity. His hands were still shaking.

“System,” he mumbled. “Tell me this is some kind of tutorial illusion.”

Nothing.

He waited.

Still nothing.

The system stayed silent.

“Seriously?” he said, looking up. “You drop me into literal pig crap and then ghost me?”

Still no reply.

Quinn groaned. “Figures. Not even the voice in my head wants to talk to me.”

“Alright, System. You dragged me here. At least give me a weapon. A cultivation technique. A cheat. Something.”

[Opening Starter Pack... Complete!]

Contents: 1 stale bun, 1 wooden clog (left foot only), 1 paper fan with a hole in it.

“...You’re joking.”

[The bun may cause emotional damage. Eat responsibly.]

Quinn closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath.

[Introducing Core Mechanic: Suffering-to-Power Conversion™]

The more you suffer, emotionally, physically, spiritually, the stronger you become.

Every wound, insult, betrayal, humiliation, and heartbreak will be converted into Suffering Points (SP).

Accumulate enough SP to break through cultivation realms, awaken techniques, and gain passive skills.

Congratulations, Fungus. Pain is your new path to power.

Quinn opened his eyes slowly. “So… you’re saying if I get kicked in the balls hard enough, I might unlock flight?”

[Exactly!]

“…I hate you.”

[Excellent. Emotional Pain: +5 SP.]