In a world where strength was measured by levels, the sword was more than a weapon—it was proof of one's worth. Towns survived not by walls, but by the strength of those who wielded them. Monsters of varying levels roamed the outskirts, and the higher their level, the more devastating their presence. Among these towns, in a small, often overlooked village called Elrest, a boy named Ren was hailed as a prodigy.
By the age of eight, Ren was already unmatched in swordsmanship among his peers. Each year, he took the top spot in the youth tournaments. Elders whispered that he might be the one to lead their town's defenses someday. By age twelve, he was easily defeating Level 4 threats that most adults hesitated to face. But Elrest was peaceful, quiet—too quiet for a boy like Ren who wanted to test the limits of his potential.
Recognizing his talents, the town sent him to the Controlled Dungeon Academy—a facility run by the kingdom to train gifted youths. There, danger was measured, challenges staged. Inside those walls, Ren remained undefeated. He climbed to Level 7 within his first year. But as the pressure to maintain his position increased, so did the doubts.
One day, during a solo training session, Ren discovered a hidden chamber in the lower levels of the dungeon. There, encased in crystalline stone, pulsed an orb—deep blue and humming with strange energy. The moment he touched it, knowledge and power flooded his body. His swordplay became divine. Movements he'd only seen from Level 9 knights now came as naturally as breathing.
But what the orb gave, it did not teach. And what it showed, it did not sustain.
"Use me," it whispered. "And no one will ever surpass you."
Ren accepted. Not out of arrogance, but fear—fear of falling behind, of being ordinary.
Weeks passed. His fame grew. But so did his dependence. He trained less, relying more on the orb. Every duel was too easy. Every lesson, beneath him.
Then, news came: Elrest was gone.
A Level 30 Blight Beast had torn through the village. Not even the town's veterans could stop it. His parents, his friends, the sword master who first trained him—all gone. Ren returned too late, and found only ashes.
He broke. The boy who once sought strength now craved revenge.
He begged the academy to let him go after the beast. They refused. He was still too low-le...vel.
But Ren no longer cared. That night, he stole into the dungeon and descended deeper than ever before, guided only by the orb's glow and his burning grief. His mind raced with fury, his heart heavy with guilt. The orb pulsed faster, whispering sweet promises: "With me, you are enough."
He believed it.
When he emerged weeks later, Ren moved like a phantom. The instructors were stunned—his power was overwhelming, unnatural. Even senior knights hesitated to spar with him. They didn't know he hadn't trained. They didn't know the orb fought for him.
The kingdom noticed. With the Blight Beast still wreaking havoc, they had no choice. They sent Ren, their so-called "Level 9 prodigy," to the front lines.
It was there, at the edge of a burning forest where Elrest once stood, that Ren faced the monster.
The Blight Beast was massive—scaled like obsidian, breathing decay. The ground withered beneath its feet. It had killed dozens of knights, leveled towns. But Ren felt no fear.
He charged. And at first, he danced around its strikes, blade flashing like lightning. His attacks cut deep. The orb pulsed with joy.
But then... it dimmed.
Mid-swing, his body slowed. The divine instincts vanished. The knowledge unraveled. The power, it seemed, was never his. It was borrowed—and the time was up.
The beast struck.
Ren's sword shattered.
Pain bloomed, sharp and cruel. His level—truly only a 7, maybe less—meant nothing now. He was a child with no training, no growth. Just false confidence built on a lie.
As the Blight Beast's claws pierced through him, he saw the orb flicker once more, then crumble to dust.
"Power without purpose is hollow," it whispered.
Ren died not as a hero, nor as a warrior—but as a warning.
In the next years, his story spread, not of the prodigy who fell, but of the boy who forgot to grow.