A chicken screamed outside.
It didn't sound like a bird should — not a squawk, but a warbled wail, like it knew the boy inside had changed. Sol sat still on the straw mat, legs folded beneath him, eyes open, unblinking. Not vacant. Never vacant.
He was five. And today, something had awakened in him.
[Ding! You have been chosen by the Heavenly Overturning System.]
The voice had no tone. No sound, really — just presence. As if the air itself had leaned down to whisper a secret into the marrow of his bones.
The hut smelled of dry wheat and last night's fire. His brother snored two mats over, mouth open, dreaming of swordfights he wasn't good enough to win. His sister mumbled in her sleep and scratched her arm like a mouse. His parents, behind the linen curtain, slept curled around each other in the tiny warmth they could afford to keep.
Sol didn't move. His breath was slow. His eyes locked on the flickering shape of the embers in the hearth, burning down to nothing.
[System Functions Unlocked. Comprehension Level: MAXIMUM. Skill Points: ∞. Shop: UNSEALED. Inventory: UNSEALED. Please use wisely.]
Sol smiled — but only in his mind. His lips didn't twitch. At five years old, in a body fresh and untempered, a lifetime of memory rolled behind his vision like stormclouds behind a clear sky.
"I won't waste it," he whispered, barely audible even to himself.
The next morning broke through the cracks in the wooden shutters. Dust beams sliced through the dark room, and Sol stood already dressed in a gray linen tunic, pulling on his cracked boots with small, deliberate hands. His sister yawned.
"Why're you up so early, dummy?" she mumbled, rubbing her eyes. She was seven, and her freckles looked like constellations across her cheeks.
He tilted his head. "Because I want to be first to school."
She blinked at him. "What? That's dumb."
Sol shrugged. "Maybe."
He didn't say more. He didn't need to. That was one of the first rules he'd learned in his last life, and the first one he'd use now: Prodigies don't speak like sages. They speak like curious boys.
His mother ruffled his hair as she stirred the pot. "You don't have to be the first, Sol. You only have to try your best."
His chest tightened at that. He didn't know what hurt more — how sincere her voice was, or how completely he remembered never hearing something like it in all his previous life.
Their town was called Rell's Hollow, a dip between two hills with a single paved road and a school built from riverstone and stubborn donations. The noble-funded academies were on the other side of the duchy. But this school — this little one-room place where six-year-olds practiced forming glyphs with broken chalk — it was everything to Sol's family. They'd spent two winters' savings just to get him enrolled early, pleading with the town lector until his beard quivered.
The teacher was a man named Vael. Crooked-backed, missing two fingers, but smart in a quiet way. He noticed Sol within two minutes.
"Your hand," Vael said, pausing as Sol shaped a first-tier incantation glyph — Aerous, for lift — in the air with a stick. "Try again."
Sol did. Perfect stroke. Arc precise. Flow stable. Not so perfect it was suspicious — but just enough to make the others blink.
Vael narrowed his eyes. "Where did you learn that?"
"My sister showed me."
"Your sister barely passes glyphwork."
Sol looked up innocently. "Then she must be a better teacher than a student."
The class laughed. Vael's lips twitched — not quite a smile, but not anger, either.
That afternoon, Sol sat beneath the dried fig tree behind the school. He focused inward.
[Status Panel Opened]
Name: Sol
Age: 5
Class: Unawakened
Comprehension: MAX
Skill Points Available: ∞
Inventory: 1x cracked slate, 1x half-inked quill, 1x roasted root bundle
Shop: Open
He tapped the Skill Tree. Endless branches spread before him — physical strength, speed, reflexes, perception, endurance, mana flow, bone density, muscle fiber elasticity, pain tolerance, even things like symmetrical growth and fast-twitch control.
He selected Agility. A new branch unfurled: joint control, balance, dynamic weight shift, evasive motion, anticipatory reflex.
He didn't touch them. Not yet.
Instead, he closed the window and sat with his eyes closed for thirty minutes. Listening to birds. Listening to how the wind changed pitch before it turned.
He opened his eyes.
[Skill Gained: Microbalance Step (Passive)]
[Skill Gained: Wind Anticipation (Passive)]
[Skill Gained: Environmental Listening (Passive)]
He smiled softly.
Comprehension at maximum. Every moment I observe is a blade I sharpen.
That night, his father gave him a worn wooden sword. "Just until the tuition's paid off," he said. "Then maybe we get you a real one."
Sol took it in both hands. It weighed barely anything. But it was more than anything he'd ever been given in his last life.
"I'll protect it," Sol said.
His father looked confused. "It's a sword, son. You protect with it."
Sol's hands closed around the hilt. "No. I meant… I'll protect this — all of this." He glanced around at the single-room home, at the threadbare curtain that served as their only door. "I'll protect everything."
His mother touched her heart.
His brother rolled his eyes.
His sister stole a roasted nut from his pocket and grinned.
That night, while they all slept, Sol opened the shop.
[Shop Items Available (filtered by level):]
Basic Swordsmanship Manual – 3 points
Tier 1 Spirit-Gathering Technique – 10 points
Chamber of Temporal Time Dilation (1 Hour) – 500 points
Tier 3 Combat Instinct Implant – 1000 points
Unknown Egg (???) – 1,000,000 points
He scrolled. Then stopped.
[Wooden Sword Upgrade: Soulbound Growth (Initial) – 1 point]
"Good," he whispered. "Just enough to seem lucky."
He pressed BUY.
The sword shimmered faintly in his hand. Then stilled.
The shimmer faded from the sword.
Sol turned it over in his hands. The grain looked tighter now, the surface cleaner, like it had been sanded by years of patient hands. But it still bore the notch near the tip — the one his father had said came from a wolf's teeth, though Sol knew it was probably just old rot.
He brought the sword close and whispered to it.
"You and me, then."
[Would you like to return to the Shop?]
"Yes," he murmured.
The interface flickered into his vision, not in front of his eyes, but behind them — as if the thought of looking were enough to open it.
[Shop Opened]
Sol flicked through it mentally, his thoughts sharp and deliberate.
— Basic Swordsmanship Manual: A collection of foundational techniques and forms. Comprehension-based auto-assimilation available. Cost: 3 Points.
— Combat Instinct Implant (Growth-Type): Gradual enhancement of combat reflexes, danger response, enemy read prediction. Growth tied to real-world stimulus. Cost: 1,000 Points.
He didn't hesitate.
"Buy both."
[Purchase confirmed. Items acquired.]
A slow burn uncurled beneath his ribs. Not pain — more like the first sip of hot tea on a freezing night. Something warm settling in the marrow of his bones.
Then a snap in the dark.
He blinked.
A roll of parchment sat now at his feet. No glimmer. No fanfare.
He picked it up, unrolled it with care.
It was simple. Six illustrated forms. Footwork diagrams. Breathing rhythm notation in a script long extinct.
But to Sol — with comprehension at maximum — it was a living text. Each line thrummed. Each figure moved in his mind's eye, unfolding from flat diagrams into ghostly demonstrations.
The first form: Stone Root — Grounded Breath.
He stood.
The moonlight slipped through the roof-thatch, tracing lines on the dirt floor.
Sol mimicked the stance. Legs shoulder-width, knees loose. Back straight, but not stiff. Sword held low, point angled back.
A gust of wind passed through the hut.
He didn't move.
Then — breath.
In through the nose, out through the belly. Slow. Controlled.
His muscles adjusted, ankles fine-tuning to the weight distribution. His fingers curled differently. The wooden blade no longer felt like a toy — it felt like a limb, just unfamiliar.
He moved to the second form.
River Spine — Fluid Advance.
His feet shifted forward with the grace of spilled oil. The sword rose in a shallow arc, barely audible. His knees bent at the precise angle to absorb rebound force. His balance never wavered.
[Technique Acquired: Basic Swordsmanship Lv. 1 → Lv. 3 (Accelerated by MAX Comprehension)]
[Passive Skill Learned: Foundational Blade Control]
[Combat Instinct Implant Calibrating: Neural pathfinding enhanced. Latency reduced by 0.4%]
Sol exhaled. A whisper of dust stirred at his heel.
He continued through the next three forms.
Time passed, but not unnoticed.
Behind the linen curtain, his sister stirred. Her sleep-fogged eyes peeked through the slit.
"Sol?" she whispered.
He froze. Blade lowered.
She stepped out barefoot. Her nightshirt was torn at the shoulder, one braid dangling crooked. "You're practicing?" she said, half-smiling. "In the middle of the night?"
Sol turned slowly, made his eyes go wide like any child caught red-handed. "Don't tell Ma."
She giggled. "Are you stupid? She'd cry if she saw you training like this. You'd get extra soup."
He lowered the blade, scratching the back of his neck like he was embarrassed. "I just… wanna be strong."
"Everyone does," she said. Then paused. Her eyes narrowed. "Where'd you learn that step?"
He looked down at his feet.
"...Made it up?"
She scowled. "Liar."
Then she ruffled his hair and turned back toward the mat. "Whatever. Just don't hurt yourself, genius."
He watched her go, then turned back toward the beam of moonlight.
He entered the fifth form.
Lantern Lash — Redirecting Blade.
This one was harder.
He stepped in, rotated the hilt, flipped the tip of the blade outward in a quick parry-then-cut motion. His body flowed too fast. The implant was already feeding subtle corrections. A tug on his elbow, a pressure at his heel.
He halted.
"Too much," he whispered.
[Combat Instinct Implant: Manual Limiter Engaged]
[Growth speed reduced by 70%]
[Progress will now mirror moderate human learning curve.]
Better.
He needed to appear gifted — not divine. A second coming of the blade would be feared, isolated, silenced. A clever boy with heart? That was a tale nobles loved to sponsor.
He dropped into a seated position, cross-legged, sword resting on his thighs.
And for the first time since awakening, he closed his eyes and did nothing.
Not training.
Not analyzing.
Just listening.
The wind in the grass.
The creak of the doorframe.
The rise and fall of his mother's breath behind the curtain.
His chest ached in a way he didn't have words for. Not a wound. Not a pain.
A presence.
His family had nothing. And yet they had poured every coin into giving him a future they barely believed in.
In his last life, he had clawed his way up from gutters of blood and smoke. Alone. Brilliant. But cold.
This life, he was given a roof, a pot of root stew, and a wooden sword.
And it felt like the world.
"I'll give it back," he said into the quiet. "All of it. Tenfold."
[Vow Registered: Protect the Family]
[Heavenly System Alignment Deepened. Fate Threads Strengthened.]
His eyes opened.
Outside, the sky had just begun to pale with hints of dawn.
He rose without sound, cleaned the floor with his sleeve, and lay back down beside his sleeping brother.
The sword he placed beside him — its grip warm now, as if it, too, understood.
The sky was the color of ash-dusted milk when Sol opened his eyes again. He hadn't slept. Not really. But he'd closed his lids and let his body breathe slow, his thoughts thin themselves until they were no more than mist on still water.
His brother kicked him in the knee.
"Ugh. Move. You're hogging the mat," the boy groaned.
Sol rolled sideways and bumped into the wall, deliberately slow. His ribs pressed against the cold wood as he muttered, "You kick in your sleep."
"That's cause I'm fighting you, dummy."
"Then you're losing," Sol said, and tucked the blanket over himself before his brother could respond.
His sister stumbled from behind the curtain, her braid messy, rubbing sleep from her face with the heel of one hand. "You're both loud," she said flatly, "and I hope you step in pigshit today."
Their mother chuckled from the fire pit, already stirring a small pot of oats. "Children arguing in the morning — must mean they slept well."
Their father sat sharpening a rusted hoe with a stone. He nodded toward Sol, pausing only long enough to glance at the wooden sword. "You took care of it?"
Sol nodded solemnly.
"Good. A man takes care of his tools."
His mother handed each of them a bowl — rough-carved and chipped, but warm.
The oats were bland, barely sweetened with a trace of dried apple. But Sol ate each bite like it was worth gold. The warmth spread through his throat, settling into the hollows of his chest. His family. This family. He would protect this.
They walked to school down a narrow dirt path flanked by half-harvested wheat. His sister walked with arms swinging like she was battling invisible soldiers.
Sol walked quietly beside her, but his eyes tracked everything — the shape of a footprint in the damp earth, the distance between crows in the field, the angle of the sun on the grass.
His instincts whispered in the back of his mind.
Wind shift.
Three degrees northeast.
Slight elevation at the left ridge.
No movement. No immediate threat.
It wasn't that he was paranoid. It was that the Combat Instinct Implant wasn't silent. It hummed quietly with every step, mapping threat vectors like a second heartbeat.
They passed an older boy on the road — ten, maybe twelve. Broad-shouldered for his age. Dirty-blond hair. He stood at the edge of a stream, tossing stones.
He turned as they passed.
"You're the sword boy?" he said to Sol, squinting.
Sol stopped.
His sister immediately stepped between them. "Leave him alone, Harren."
The boy — Harren — snorted. "I just asked a question."
Sol's eyes didn't move. "I'm not a sword," he said simply.
Harren narrowed his eyes. "You brought a sword to school."
"So?"
"So you think you're better?"
Sol shrugged. "No. Just different."
His sister pulled his arm. "Come on."
They walked away.
But Sol could feel Harren's eyes on his back all the way to the school.
The schoolhouse was small. One room. A cracked slate board at the front. Stone walls lined with paper scrolls that curled at the edges from damp.
Master Vael was already inside, sweeping with a broom that had more stick than bristle. He paused as the children filed in — a dozen of them, maybe more.
Sol sat near the middle, just far enough from the front to avoid drawing attention, but close enough to always see.
Vael looked over the class with his usual scowl. "Today is sword day," he said, then jabbed the broom toward the wall, where a bundle of wooden training swords lay like discarded firewood. "Everyone pick one."
The children shuffled toward the pile.
Sol didn't move.
His own wooden sword lay across his lap, polished, clean, the notch still there.
Vael's eyes met his. "Brought your own?"
Sol nodded.
"Hm." Vael said nothing more, but turned back toward the board.
The lesson was basic form.
Vael paced between the children, adjusting their grips, correcting stances, nudging knees with his stick. His voice was dry and to the point.
Sol moved like he already knew.
Because he did.
Not just from the Basic Swordsmanship Manual — though that had refined his foundation to surgical precision — but from a thousand duels in a past life. A thousand failures, corrections, deaths.
He'd just never moved this body like that before.
Until now.
"Sol," Vael said suddenly. "Show me River Guard."
Sol stepped forward, calm. Feet apart. Sword tilted low, edge outward.
Vael circled him. Eyes narrowed. "Too perfect," he muttered under his breath. "How long have you been practicing?"
Sol blinked. "Last night was my first time."
The class murmured. One boy laughed.
Vael raised a hand for silence.
"I see," he said finally. "Harren."
The older boy stood from the back.
"Match him. Light contact only. One exchange."
Sol's stomach didn't flutter. His knees didn't wobble.
He stepped into the ring without a word.
Harren grinned as he gripped his sword. "Should've stayed home, sword boy."
Sol didn't answer.
Vael clapped twice.
Harren lunged.
His swing came high — a textbook overhead strike, too eager, too fast. It had power, but no setup. No feint. No misdirection.
Sol stepped aside one inch.
His foot slid like water along the dirt.
He rotated his wrist.
His blade kissed the boy's forearm — a tap. Light. Barely felt.
The fight was over before most students had even leaned forward.
Harren stared, frozen.
Vael let out a single breath.
"Good. That's enough."
But Harren's face flushed red. He raised his blade again, this time with fury behind it.
Vael shouted, "Stop!"
Too late.
The swing came wild and diagonal.
Sol's eyes narrowed.
Time slowed.
Not from magic. Not from power.
Just instinct.
He saw the weight shift in Harren's back heel. The lack of control in his wrist. The open rib.
Sol stepped in, bent his knees, angled his blade, and—
Tap.
The wooden sword pressed against Harren's stomach, just under the ribs.
If he'd had a real blade, the boy would be dying now.
Vael's cane struck the floor. "Enough."
Harren stumbled back, shaking. His eyes wet. Angry.
Sol stepped out of the ring and sat.
The room was silent.
Then one girl clapped.
Then another.
Then the whole class.
Vael didn't stop them.
He just looked at Sol with something unreadable in his expression.
Maybe fear.
Maybe curiosity.
Maybe something else.
The schoolhouse emptied slower than usual.
Children milled near the doorway, glancing back at Sol with furtive eyes, whispering behind open palms. Harren was gone. He'd stormed out before dismissal, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a stone.
Sol remained at his seat.
His sister shot him a look from across the room — half impressed, half suspicious.
"You're not dumb," she mouthed silently.
Sol smiled with one corner of his mouth and gave her a shrug that said maybe I'm lucky.
The truth sat quietly behind his eyes, coiled like a sleeping serpent.
Master Vael waited until the last student left.
He closed the door slowly, as if sealing the room off from the world. The rusted hinges groaned in protest.
Then he turned and leaned against the front desk, arms crossed.
"Tell me the truth, Sol," Vael said quietly.
Sol blinked, kept his face still.
"I already told you. My sister showed me."
Vael didn't smile. He stepped forward, one boot at a time, until he stood within arm's reach. "I've trained nobles and militiamen. Seen sword prodigies and fakes. You aren't either."
Sol tilted his head. "Then what am I?"
Vael studied him. His eyes were gray — not dull, but deep. There was wear in his shoulders. A fatigue earned, not given. And behind that weariness, a spark — the kind that only lived in men who'd once lived close to death.
"You're something else," Vael said. "And that means someone else is going to notice."
Sol remained quiet.
Vael took a breath. "Do your parents know?"
"No."
"Do you plan to tell them?"
"Not yet."
Vael nodded once. "Good."
He turned and walked back toward his desk. Pulled open a drawer. Took out a small leather-bound notebook — the edges frayed, corners water-warped. He thumbed through the pages and stopped at one, then tossed it on the table in front of Sol.
"Read this."
Sol leaned in.
The glyphs were archaic — not standard script, but etched in high-glyph, a form used two centuries ago by martial recordkeepers in the northern empires. Most students wouldn't have been able to make out a letter.
Sol read the first line aloud, quietly:
"'The blade is not forged in fire, but in rhythm.'"
Vael raised a brow. "You can read that?"
Sol didn't answer. He turned the page.
More text. Descriptions of stances. Diagrams of footwork that didn't exist in modern textbooks. A breathing sequence used by the Fell Dancers of Rone.
He looked up. "Where did you get this?"
Vael's mouth twitched.
"I killed a man who had it."
The silence stretched.
Sol set the book down. "Why show it to me?"
"Because you need someone to watch your back. And I need someone worth teaching."
Sol frowned, eyes narrowing. "You think I'm in danger."
"I know it," Vael said flatly. "You embarrassed Harren in front of the entire class. His uncle is Captain of the town guard. You don't think that'll come back on you?"
Sol's mind ran through scenarios — beatings, threats, forced dropout. Worse.
He kept his voice calm. "Then I won't stand out again."
Vael's eyes sharpened. "That's not how this works. You don't get to choose whether you're a candle or a torch. Once you burn, they all come looking."
Sol considered that. The metaphor was crude, but true.
He closed the book gently.
"I want to keep my family safe."
"Then don't hide too well," Vael said, stepping away. "Hiding draws suspicion. But so does being too perfect. Walk the line, boy."
"I am."
"Then stay on it."
Sol stepped out into the afternoon light.
The sun had risen higher, but the clouds had thickened into a blanket of gray. The wind had picked up, and the wheat in the fields danced like golden snakes.
His sister was waiting for him by the fence.
She didn't smile. Didn't speak.
Just handed him a rock — small, flat, smooth — with a little "S" scratched into it.
"What's this?" Sol asked.
"A reminder."
"Of what?"
She glanced sideways. "That I saw you move faster than anyone else in that room. And that I'm smarter than you think."
Sol grinned. "I don't think you're dumb."
She shoved him lightly. "Good. Because I'm the only one who's not going to snitch on you."
They walked home in silence, but it wasn't heavy. It was the quiet of understanding.
That night, he sat alone again, in the moonlit corner of the hut.
He opened the shop only briefly — not to buy, but to study.
[Available Passive Skill Trees – Swordsmanship Branch:]
Blade Memory
Muscle Echo
Angle Prediction
Rhythm Distillation
Tempo Manipulation
Phantom Form (Locked)
He hovered over Rhythm Distillation.
Allows internal mapping of opponent's movement cadence. Enhances counter-timing with increased exposure.
A perfect skill for someone pretending to learn.
He unlocked it with a single whisper.
[Skill Acquired: Rhythm Distillation (Lv. 1)]
[Combat Implant Growth Registered. Neural entrainment response rate increased.]
He spent the next two hours listening to the wind again — not because he needed to, but because it reminded him that even with godlike tools, patience still had weight.
Tomorrow would bring new eyes.
He would be ready.
The next morning tasted like smoke.
Ash hung in the wind, faint and clinging — not from fire, but from the forge on the eastern rise, where blacksmith Eddor melted old iron into new. The scent curled around the fields and clung to skin like doubt.
Sol walked to school with his sister again. Her braid was neater today. She didn't ask why he was quiet — she just walked beside him, stealing glances when she thought he wouldn't notice.
She didn't need to speak. The village already had.
Whispers had passed like cold water the evening prior.
The sword boy. The prodigy. The one who moved like a blade remembers itself.
Sol didn't look different. But the space around him had changed — thinner, tighter, like a thread being drawn through the eye of a needle.
He stepped into the schoolhouse.
The room fell silent.
Master Vael was not yet present. The air was tense, charged. Several students looked away when he met their gaze. Others didn't.
Two new faces sat in the back.
One was thin, with skin the color of old marble and fingers like calligraphy brushes. The other — the boy in the center — had the careless posture of someone used to being obeyed.
He wore a black tunic with red stitching. His boots were shined. His sword was real.
Not wood. Steel.
Polished. Balanced. A noble's weapon.
Sol took a seat without pause.
The boy stared at him for a moment longer, then looked away, the barest smirk on his lips.
Vael entered a moment later, gaze sweeping the room like a storm about to choose where to fall.
His eyes flicked to the new students. "We have guests."
The class didn't move.
"This is Rell's Hollow. Not the capital. Not some damned gilded arena," Vael continued, cane tapping once. "Here, we teach with dirt and repetition."
He turned to the noble boy. "Your name?"
The boy stood slowly. "Taren Vell."
Murmurs stirred. That name — Vell — meant something even in the outer villages. House Vell. Minor nobility, but tied to the Silver Flame Council. Bureaucrats. Strategists. Enforcers of doctrine.
Taren's eyes moved across the class, then stopped on Sol.
"I heard your school had a sword prodigy."
He said it not like praise — but like accusation.
Sol remained still.
Vael's cane tapped again. "Taren will be observing. That's all."
But no one believed that.
The morning passed in tense silence.
Glyphwork exercises. Breath pacing. Basic motion drills.
Taren never picked up a sword. Just watched. Eyes sharp. Mind turning like oiled gears.
At midday break, Sol sat beneath the fig tree again.
The same spot. Same shadow.
Taren approached, his boots too clean for village mud.
"Sol, right?" he said, without sitting.
Sol didn't answer.
Taren dropped a small leather pouch between them. It jingled faintly.
"Ten silvers," Taren said. "Spar with me after class."
Sol looked at the pouch, then at him.
"No."
Taren blinked.
"No?"
"I don't need your silver," Sol said.
Taren crouched, unbothered. "Everyone needs silver. Even heroes."
"I'm not a hero."
"No," Taren said. "But you're pretending not to be a monster. That's worse."
Sol's gaze sharpened. "You're not from here."
"No."
"Then don't speak like you know me."
Taren smiled. "Then show me."
That afternoon, Vael made them pair for footwork drills.
Taren and Sol.
Opposites.
Oil and cold water.
They faced each other in the center of the room. Circling. Moving without blades.
Just feet.
Step. Anchor. Shift. Draw. Withdraw.
Taren was good.
Not like Harren. Not reckless. His stance was refined, posture balanced. His weight shifted like a dancer trained in war.
But Sol was better.
Because Sol's body learned as it moved — his Combat Instinct Implant feeding him data at a microscopic level.
Taren stepped in with a feint. Sol didn't flinch.
He countered with a weight shift so smooth it looked accidental, placing his foot exactly where Taren would go.
Taren nearly stumbled.
Vael called, "Enough."
No victor. No clash.
But everyone saw what they needed to see.
After class, Taren waited again by the door.
"You've got secrets," he said simply.
Sol walked past him without speaking.
Taren followed.
"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. Secrets are valuable. I collect them."
Sol stopped, just once.
"You're not here to learn."
"No."
"You're here to measure."
Taren's smile was thin. "Let me know when you're ready to be weighed."
He left without another word.
That night, the system interface glowed brighter than usual.
[Warning: Attention Level Increased – 3rd Tier Faction has taken interest]
[New Side Quest Available: Deflect Noble Interest – Suggested Strategy: Controlled Underperformance or Redirection]
[Reward for Successful Concealment: Bloodline Fragment (Unawakened)]
[Penalty for Exposure: Early Assassination Flag Triggered]
Sol stared at the words for a long time.
Then he whispered: "Show me the Redirection Strategy."
[Option 1: Fabricate Mentor Figure – Suggest existence of unknown master to shift attention from innate talent]
[Option 2: Transfer Attention – Allow rival to appear superior in a staged defeat]
[Option 3: Create Hidden Faction Illusion – Leak false affiliation with minor sect to scare off interest]
Sol didn't choose yet.
But the game had changed.
He would not survive on talent alone.
Now came the part his past life had prepared him for:
Deception.
The fog rolled in before the sun had fully risen.
Not mist — fog. Thick, wet, clinging to skin like sweat that wouldn't dry. Sol woke early. The windows were opaque with dew, the hearth only a faint glow. His wooden sword leaned against the wall like a slumbering hound.
He'd chosen his path before he even opened his eyes.
[Selected Strategy: Option 2 – Transfer Attention via Staged Defeat]
[Altering Perception Matrix...]
[Attention Metrics Stabilizing...]
If the System were correct, today would begin the cooling phase — where rumors dulled, interest waned, and he could resume building power in the shadows.
All he had to do was lose.
Convincingly.
At school, Vael announced the match with little ceremony.
"We train. We test. We learn. Nothing more," the old man said, but his eyes flicked to Taren Vell, and then to Sol. He saw more than he said. Always had.
Taren stepped forward into the ring first, sword in hand. His steel blade had been swapped for a wooden one, but the grip still bore noble filigree.
Sol walked in second. Calm. Still.
They stood facing each other, bodies angled, stances open.
Vael looked between them.
"This is not for glory," he said. "It is to understand weakness."
Neither spoke.
Vael raised his cane. "Begin."
Taren struck first — fast, sharp, direct. His footwork was superior to yesterday, his stance lower, tighter. Sol met the first blow with a parry, stepped back three inches, let the next swing graze the air where his ribs had been.
He moved just slowly enough.
Each motion calculated, dialed back. His Combat Instinct Implant screamed for sharper reaction — but he suppressed it.
Taren pressed the attack.
Right strike. Feint. Shoulder dip. Upward sweep.
Sol turned too late. Let the blade slap hard across his ribs with a wooden crack.
"Hit!" someone cried.
Sol grunted and dropped to a knee.
Taren hesitated.
Vael raised his hand. "Pause."
He stepped forward.
Sol clutched his side — just enough pressure to look winded. He lowered his eyes. Not defeated. Just outclassed.
Perfect.
[System Notice: Staged Defeat Registered]
[Attention Decreasing...]
[Side Quest Progress: 71%...]
Then it happened.
Taren turned his back.
Not in disrespect — in triumph. A boy from the capital, one-upping the infamous commoner genius.
And he said just loud enough to carry: "See? He's not that special."
Sol's hand twitched.
His ears rang.
Not from pain — from the echo of his past life, from every bitter duel where arrogance had tried to write history.
His eyes flicked up.
Taren's heel was exposed.
Just one strike. Fast. Sharp. Humble him.
He stood.
Vael turned too late.
Sol lunged.
One step. Two.
His sword snapped forward — a flicker, so fast it whistled through the air before the impact even echoed.
Crack!
Taren spun, stumbled, his wooden sword knocked spinning from his grip.
He landed on his side, dazed.
The room went still.
Sol stood above him, blade resting across his opponent's chest.
Not triumphant.
Not gloating.
Just present. Fierce. Alive.
[System Alert: Quest Failure – You Have Revealed Inherent Talent]
[Faction Attention Renewed – Tier 3 Interest Level Elevated to Tier 2]
[Triggering Hidden Chain Quest...]
[You Have Met the Unseen Condition: "Reveal Before You Rise"]
[Reward: Bloodline Fragment – Greater, Awakened]
[Bonus Effect: Transference Eligible – Extending Fragment to Designated Kin]
Sol staggered backward. His body felt hot. Not from exertion — from change.
Something cracked inside his chest. Not bone. Not muscle.
Blood.
His veins shimmered with heat. Not magic. Not mana. Something deeper — ancestral.
A silver pulse moved through his ribs, down into his legs.
Behind his eyes, the System unfurled a window of firelight.
[Bloodline Unsealed: Origin-Class – Wyrmheart Variant]
[Effect: Heat Immunity, Enhanced Muscle Regrowth, Bone Density Upgraded, Threat Perception Amplified]
[Extending Blessing to Family Unit...]
[Confirm Targets: Mother, Father, Sister, Brother]
"Yes," Sol whispered.
[Confirmed. Transferring...]
[Father: Pain Resistance Increased | Muscle Fiber Reconfiguration Initiated]
[Mother: Vital Resilience Boosted | Aether Organ Potential Detected]
[Brother: Reflex Multiplier Triggered | Growth Curve Amplified]
[Sister: Combat Instinct Sparked | Latent Bloodline Fusion: In Progress]
Sol fell to one knee.
Not from damage — from evolution.
The classroom erupted.
Some students shouted. Others rushed toward Taren. He wasn't injured — just rattled.
But the nobles would hear.
This could not be ignored.
Vael approached slowly, cane clicking on the stone. His voice was low. "You tried to play a game."
Sol didn't look up.
"And you lost that game," Vael added.
"I know."
"But you won something else."
Sol finally raised his eyes.
Vael studied him with something older than pride. It was recognition.
"Your secret's out, boy."
Sol nodded. "It was never going to stay in."
That night, he didn't train.
Didn't open the shop. Didn't analyze stats.
He sat outside the hut, beneath the stars.
His father came out, sat beside him, offered no questions.
But Sol turned toward him.
"You feel anything strange?" he asked quietly.
His father nodded after a pause. "My shoulder doesn't hurt today."
Sol exhaled. A small smile flickered on his face.
"I think," he said, "we're going to be okay."
His father said nothing. But he reached out and rested a hand on Sol's shoulder — strong, steady.
They sat there until the sky grew too dark to see.
The stars above Rell's Hollow were the same as always.
Pinprick lights. Too far to touch. But tonight, they felt closer — as if the sky itself had tilted, and all things ancient now leaned toward the boy seated outside the thatched hut with a sword across his lap.
Sol hadn't moved in hours.
His fingers traced the grain of the wood. Not in thought. In knowing. The sword hummed beneath his touch — not literally, but like a bone-deep memory shared between tool and wielder.
[System Notification: Bloodline Synchronization 87% Complete]
[Effects Now Fully Linked Across Family Unit]
[Passive Growth: Enabled]
He didn't smile.
Not yet.
Inside, his sister had started drawing with chalk on the stone wall. She was left-handed now — had always been, but now her hand moved with a clarity she didn't yet understand.
His brother had stopped stuttering when reciting his drills.
His mother's fingers no longer trembled when sewing.
His father had lifted the old plow one-handed that morning — just once — and said nothing after.
Change was happening. Quiet. Clean. Like fire underground.
When Sol entered the schoolhouse the next day, he did not sit in the center row.
He sat in the front.
Taren was already there, of course. His jaw still bore a faint bruise from where the wooden blade had snapped his rhythm. But he didn't speak. He just nodded.
Not in friendship.
In recognition.
Vael tapped the slate at the front with his cane. "Today, we spar."
There was no lesson. No lecture. Only motion.
Sol rose first.
Not because he volunteered. Because no one else dared move until he had.
They gave him Marn to fight. The baker's son. Big, soft. Strong when riled, but slow.
Sol didn't attack.
He watched.
Let the boy move first.
Then redirected a swing, gently, placed his sword's tip at the boy's throat before Marn knew what had happened.
Vael nodded. "Next."
Each opponent was different.
He adjusted his footwork against the girl who charged low.
Used reversed grip against the tall boy with reach.
Never flashy. Never excessive.
Only correct.
Each movement spoke one truth:
He was no longer pretending.
[Hidden Chain Quest: Path of Revelation – Step 2 Completed]
[Reward: System Perception Mask (Tier 1) – Allows concealment of detailed status from hostile scans]
[New System Function Unlocked: Bloodline Archive]
[Unique Trait Gained: Ancestral Memory (Wyrmheart Variant) – Grants instinctive recall of extinct combat techniques during duress]
Sol's hand twitched at the last notification.
[System Message: You are now beyond early-stage vulnerability. All future threats will scale accordingly.]
He whispered to himself, "Let them come."
After school, he walked home without his sister. She had stayed late to spar. Her stance was awkward, but she laughed while correcting it.
He felt something stir in his chest. Not pride. Something older.
Continuity.
In his last life, nothing had survived him. No name. No child. No mark but scars and one broken promise.
This time, there would be more.
He climbed the ridge behind the town that evening. Past the wheat. Past the tree line. To where old watchstones marked the edge of the forgotten lands.
There, he saw it.
A man. Robed. Tall. Pale.
Watching.
Sol didn't speak.
The man didn't move.
Just turned.
And vanished behind the treeline like he'd never been.
[Threat Detected – Observation Attempt Registered]
[Tier 2 Agent of Unknown Faction]
[Danger Level: Moderate. Pursuit Recommended: No.]
[Advice: Continue Ascension. Let them observe. Not strike. Yet.]
Sol stood alone on the ridge for a while longer, sword in hand.
Then, without ceremony, he turned and walked home.
That night, he ate dinner beside his family. Steam rose from the stew pot. No one mentioned how his father's posture had straightened. How his mother's eyes had brightened.
They didn't speak of gifts or miracles.
Just of the day.
His sister said, "I hit someone with the flat of my blade, and it made my arm ring like a bell!"
His brother said, "Master Vael asked if I could lead a breathing drill."
His mother passed the ladle to his father. "We'll need more root for next week."
Sol said nothing.
He didn't need to.
He was home.
Sorry if it's kinda too much, or confusing I wrote this in segments.
(Chapter details in the comment on this sentence)