[System Booting…][
Emotional Catalyst Triggered.]
[Initializing... Awakening Sequence…]
His body had been broken—his will barely stitched together. But now—
A pulse.
A breath of something alien surged beneath his skin. Cold and hot all at once.
Aryl's blurry eyes twitched open as pale blue code etched itself into the void in front of him.
[Welcome, Crownless.]
[System Status: Active]
User: Aryl ░░░░░░░░
Classification: [Unclassified]
Player Level: 1EXP: 20 / 100
▶ Strength ▌▌░░░░░░░░░ 2
▶ Dexterity ▌▌░░░░░░░░░ 2
▶ Perception ▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌░░ 9
▶ Intelligence ▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌░░░ 8
▶ Charisma ▌▌▌░░░░░░░░ 3
▶ Endurance ▌▌▌▌▌▌▌░░░░ 7
▶ Vitality ▌▌░░░░░░░░░ 2
But before he could even process it—
The world shattered.
Throne Room
Silence.
He stood in a vast, desolate hall—cathedral-like in size, but stripped of holiness. The floor beneath his feet was made of dark obsidian, cracked and stained with crimson lines that pulsed faintly—like veins in the body of a sleeping god.
Endless black columns towered around him, each twisted and sharp, as if they'd been carved by anger itself. And above… was no ceiling. Only an eternal sky of storm clouds swirling red and purple, stitched with lightning that never struck.
But the centerpiece…
At the heart of the room, elevated on a fractured platform of bone-white stone—
A throne.
Forged of jagged metal and weathered iron, etched with runes in a language older than memory. It sat empty. Waiting.
There was no king.
Just a vacant pressure, like the chair itself was staring back at him.
But it wasn't alone.
They were watching.
Dozens—maybe hundreds—of shadows. Standing beyond the pillars. Unmoving. Unblinking.
Each radiated something wrong. Their forms were cloaked in black that shifted like smoke, limbs stretched by hatred, their faces hidden by hoods or cracked masks.
But they weren't passive.
They were judging.
And then—one stepped forward.
The First Shadow
Unlike the others, this one moved with intent. Tall, wrapped in a deep mantle stitched with symbols, hands tucked behind his back like a tactician at war.
There were no eyes—only the faint white glow of slits behind his mask, watching Aryl like prey that had surprised the predator.
A long moment passed.
And then—
He bowed.
Slow. Precise. Not out of respect. Out of recognition.
[Shadow Recognized: Crimson Strategist.]
Requirement Met:–
INT ≥ 6
PER ≥ 8
Trait: Natural Observation
Legacy Granted: Iron Chess – Battlefield Foresight
Tier: Basic (Limited Activation) Advanced Tier Locked
The strategist rose wordlessly and returned to his place.
But something strange happened.
The moment his presence faded—the throne's empty seat seemed to lean ever so slightly in Aryl's direction.
[System Reward: First Resonance Achieved]
→ Health Recovery: +50%
→ Mental Stabilization: Partial
Aryl staggered.
He could breathe again. He could feel his heart again.
But it didn't make sense.
Nothing did.
"…No."
He looked around at the shadows, at the throne, at the stars bleeding in the sky above.
"This is—this isn't real."
His fist trembled.
And then he punched himself in the face.
Hard. A cracking sound echoed. Pain bloomed across his cheek.
He stumbled a step back, clenching his jaw.
Eyes wide.
Chest rising and falling.
"…It hurts."
Blood trickled from his lip.
"…It's real."
But before he could spiral again—
A sound. A scream.
Asha.
His eyes widened. His breath caught.
Everything else vanished.
The shadows. The throne. The sky.
[Returning to Reality...]
His body tensed.
Aryl didn't care if this was fantasy or madness. He didn't care about systems, shadows, or stats.
She was in danger.
That's all that mattered.
The world returned in a rush of noise and color.
The overhead lights of the convenience store buzzed like insects. The reek of instant noodles and spilled energy drinks mixed with something sharper—adrenaline. Blood. Fear.
His eyes locked onto Asha.
She stood frozen, her tiny frame trembling near the shelf of watercolor sets she'd accidentally knocked over. Paint soaked the floor like scattered memories. Her white hoodie clung to her petite form, too big for her, sleeves covering her hands. Big round eyes—dark and glassy—stared at him, and sparkled faintly as if begging him to make this nightmare stop.
She couldn't scream. She hadn't for years.
But her eyes screamed louder than any voice.
Aryl's breath hitched.
The thugs were moving. Slow and casual, like they had all the time in the world to hurt a little girl.
One of them cracked his knuckles. "Think you can just throw shit at us and—"
Aryl stepped forward.
And the system clicked.
[Skill Activated – Iron Chess: Battlefield Foresight]
Tier: Basic (Limited Activation)Duration:50 seconds
Seconds Effect: Predict enemy micro-movements and expose key openings.
The air changed.
His vision tightened—tunnel-like. The sounds around him muffled, as if he'd slipped underwater. And then... lines. Soft, glowing outlines traced across the thugs' bodies. Elbows, knees, ribs. Points of tension. Weakness.
They blinked, shimmered, and pulsed in rhythm with the thugs' breathing.
Aryl didn't think. He moved.
The first thug stepped in with a lazy punch—Aryl ducked, twisted his body with precision not even he knew he had, and drove his knuckles into the glowing mark below the man's ribs.
A gasping cough. A stutter-step backward.
"What the f—"
Another moved. Aryl sidestepped and chopped his leg at the inner knee—another flash-point—sending the guy sprawling into a rack of instant noodles.
His heartbeat felt clear. Not fast. Just... calculated.
He glanced to the security camera mounted on the ceiling—its red light blinking.
Bad. Too bad.
He grabbed a glass bottle from the counter and flung it. CRACK! The camera sparked, glass falling like snow.
They couldn't track this.
No one could know.
Asha was still frozen. She hadn't moved from the wall, arms tight against her chest. Her lips trembled, but no sound escaped. She looked so small—so breakable. Like if someone breathed too hard, she'd vanish.
And still, she looked at him like he was the only thing holding her to this world.
Aryl turned toward the final thug—face pale now, backing away.
The look in Aryl's eyes wasn't human.
The last thug stumbled backward, slipping slightly on a trail of spilled grape soda.
His hands were up now, trembling. "H-Hey, man, we—we didn't mean nothin', alright? Just tryna teach the brat some manners—"
Aryl didn't respond.
He stepped forward, each footstep measured, heavy, and deliberate.
In his eyes: war. Not anger. Not rage. Just... purpose.
The system's glow faded, but the memory of the movements remained in his limbs—like a chessboard was still unfolding beneath their feet, every motion a counter, every breath a calculated strike.
The thug tried to swing. Aryl caught the arm mid-air.
Crack—A shoulder dislocated.
A stomp—A shin fractured.
The man collapsed, howling in a mixture of pain and confusion. "What the hell ARE you?!"
Aryl didn't answer. Instead, he turned.
To her.
Asha.
She hadn't moved an inch
But her eyes—those wide, beautiful, haunted eyes—stared at her brother with something new.
Something between awe and disbelief.
Her lips quivered again, but no words came.
Aryl kneeled, arms wide open.
Asha sprinted to him and collapsed into his chest.
Tight. Desperate. Like she was trying to merge with him—to hide inside the one person she knew would never break.
Her silent sobs racked her body.
Aryl held her closer.
He exhaled, and for the first time in years...He didn't feel weak.
[System Notice: Minor Reward Granted]
Reason: Tactical Success Under Limited Constraints.
+25% Physical Recovery Applied.
But he didn't care about that now.
Glass crunched behind them. One of the thugs was still conscious, groaning, crawling toward the broken exit.
Aryl stared at the back of his head with cold eyes.
He could end it. Break more than bones.
But he didn't.
Instead, he scooped Asha into his arms like a soldier carrying treasure, and walked toward the back of the store.
Before they left, his eyes flicked to the half-sparking camera he'd broken earlier.
Good.
No trace.
Not yet.
Aryl turned the key quietly, even though he knew Asha was already asleep.
She rested in his arms, her small frame curled into his hoodie like it was a cocoon. Her head rested against his chest, breathing light and steady now—like the fear had finally let go.
The door creaked open.
The apartment was a box.
Peeling wallpaper. Exposed concrete in one corner where rain had leaked through. A flickering light bulb buzzed overhead like a dying insect. The only pieces of furniture were a low mattress, a stained second-hand couch with a cigarette burn in the armrest, and a half-broken dining chair sitting alone in the kitchen like a forgotten soul.
This doesn't feel like home but more like a place to survive.
And yet... Asha smiled in her sleep when he laid her down on the mattress and tucked her in with the only warm blanket they had.
Aryl stared at her for a moment. His heartbeat, which had roared like thunder just an hour ago, was now quiet. Too quiet.
He walked to the sink—no hot water—and splashed his face.
The blood on his knuckles had dried into thin, cracked layers. His sleeves were torn. His breath was starting to catch up with him, chest heaving in short bursts now that the adrenaline had faded.
He stared into the cracked mirror above the sink.
The boy in the reflection didn't look like someone who had just fought back. He looked... the same. Almost.
But his eyes. They didn't flinch anymore.
Elsewhere – 11:42 p.m.
A black car rolled up in front of the convenience store, its engine humming smooth and soundless.
Two men stepped out—both in matching charcoal suits, no ties, no badges. They looked like civil servants from hell. Their posture was too straight. Their movements too still.
One of them stepped inside the shattered store, ducking under the bent security shutter.
He crouched and placed two fingers on the floor, exactly where the scuffle began.
"…There was a burst. Small. Controlled. But creed residue's here."
The other stood near the door, glancing up at the camera still hanging by a wire, lens cracked.
"Camera's fried. No data."
The crouching one stood slowly, brushing his fingertips together like wiping dust off time.
"He masked his signature. Untrained, but clever."
"Think it's one of ours?"
"Doubtful. This wasn't licensed . This was something else... raw. Sharp. And definitely not from the Academy."
The standing agent narrowed his eyes, as if the city beyond the window could answer them.
"Another veiled?"
A pause.
"No. Not veiled. Someone new."
He took a last look at the crimson-stained floor, then turned.
"We report this to creedshift HQ. Someone just awakened… "