SYSTEM SCREEN – FULL EXPANSION
You have entered the Legacy System Interface.
1. STAT SCREEN
This section governs Your personal and bloodline attributes. Stats can be increased through levelling up, training, missions, and unique system events.
Name: Cara Solace
Alias: Nonya
Level: 1
Race: Human (Awakened Lineage)
Bloodline Tier: C+ (Suppressed)
Legacy Rank: 5th Generation Heir
Bloodline Sync: 3%
XP: 90 / 100
Next Level: 10 XP
Unspent Stat Points: 1
Core Stats
STR (Strength): 8 → Governs physical power, damage output with melee weapons, and carrying capacity.
AGI (Agility): 10 → Affects movement speed, reflexes, dodging, and stealth.
END (Endurance): 9 → Health pool, stamina regen, resistance to pain and fatigue.
INT (Intellect): 11 → Tactical planning, complex thought, language capacity, and tech/tool use.
WIS (Wisdom): 10 → Instinct, spiritual sensitivity, ability to interpret the system, decision clarity.
CHA (Charisma): 6 → Influence over others, leadership, persuasion, command presence.
LCK (Luck): ??? (Locked until Bloodline Sync reaches 25%) → Affects outcomes, hidden rewards, critical events.
BLOOD (Bloodline Sync): 3% → Unlocks bloodline-based powers, access to hidden systems and ancestral memories.
Tip: Sync increases through danger, legacy events, emotionally intense moments, or solving mysteries tied to your heritage.
2. INVENTORY
Digital-storage vault only accessible through the system. Items can be materialized or dismissed into spirit-space.
Capacity: 6 Quick Active Slots (Expandable)
Slot 1: Hereditary Sword (Bound)
Type: Unique Weapon
Properties: Soulsteel, Bloodbound, Adaptive
Growth Rate: Evolves with user
Sync Level: 18%
Slot 2-6: Empty
Additional Features:
Auto-Retrieve: Lost items return to inventory after combat or destruction unless destroyed by specific anti-system means.
Expansion Nodes: Unlock extra slots at Levels 5, 10, 15, or by purchasing with System Credits.
3. LEGACY LOG
A living, updating record of the Solace bloodline. Each heir contributes to the log through deeds, discoveries, and recorded memories.
Active Entries Unlocked:
Vorian Solace – Founder. Known as the "Blade Sovereign." Unifier of the Five Banners. Created the original Legacy System.
Lucia Solace – Diplomatic genius. Architect of the Virelli Courts. Used her system to conquer economically, not militarily.
Cara Solace – Entry active. Progress: 2%
Corrupted / Locked Entries:
Generation 3 – Data Fragmented
Generation 4 – Marked as Betrayer
Generation 5 – Lost Heir (You)
Unlocks when: Lineage restored, ancestral clues discovered, or emotional resonance with heir's memories is achieved.
4. MISSIONS
Divided into Legacy Quests (long-term), Sub-Missions (short-term), and Hidden Objectives (unlocked by exploration).
Primary Legacy Quest:
Restore the Solace Line to Global Power.
Objective Path: Military, Economic, Social, Spiritual, or Hybrid.
Progress: 0%
Reward: ??? (Changes depending on chosen path)
Sub-Missions:
Survive the Blood Trial – ✅ Completed
Return to the Real World – Active
Secure Base of Power – Locked
Acquire First Ally – Locked
Unlock Family Archive – Locked
Confront the One Who Stole You – Hidden
5. STORE (LOCKED)
Status: Inaccessible
Requirements to Unlock:
Reach Level 5 or
Achieve 25% Bloodline Sync
"Access to the System Store grants the ability to purchase legacy weapons, ancient relics, training scrolls, skill blueprints, stat boosts, combat modifiers, loyal retainers, and hidden knowledge."
Currency Used:
Legacy Credits – Earned through missions, system quests, and achievements.
Bloodpoints – Gained through syncing ancestral memories, key kills, and bloodline restoration.
Echo Tokens – Rare rewards from defeating System Anomalies or Unbound Heirs.
6. REALITY SYNC / MAP (INCOMPLETE)
Currently in: Simulated Legacy Realm – Trial Zone 1
Reality Anchor: Unstable
Time Passed in Real World: Unknown
Physical Body: Pending Retrieval
Map and Real World Sync will resume upon completion of First Cycle and Awakening Sequence.
7. LOCKED FEATURES
[Skill Tree]:
Unlocks at Level 3
Grants passive and active combat abilities
Includes unique Bloodline Techniques based on Sync level
[Clan/Faction Builder]:
Unlocks after securing a base and first vassal
Allows establishment of a modern House Solace network
Enables management of territory, followers, and influence
[Legacy Trials Archive]:
Unlocks after second death (temporary or spiritual)
Grants access to alternative bloodline timelines, ancestral duels, and hidden memories
Used to refine philosophy and path
The forest was still again. The last of the enemies had fallen, their bodies fading into shadowy mist—like they had never existed at all. Even the bird sounds of the forest had stilled as if someone had thrown a switch.
Cara stood in the silence, the weight of the sword still humming faintly in her hand.
Then, a familiar mechanical chime echoed through the air:
[System Update: Spirit Space Unlocked]
Dimensional Inventory Vault Now Available
Parameters: 3m x 3m x 3m
Living Matter Restriction: TRUE
Storage Type: Suspended Time / Null Weight
Before her, a faintly glowing cube materialised—a transparent outline in the air about the size of a small room. It shimmered with potential. Three metres in all directions. Neutral temperature. Null weight. No decay.
A perfect vault, nestled between dimensions.
But her eyes were on the blade in her hand.
The sword no longer felt like a separate object. It breathed with her. Hummed with her heartbeat. Like it knew her blood. Was made of it.
She turned her forearm, and the tattoo of the blade—black and elegantly etched—flickered once in the skin just below her elbow.
"Let's see if this works," she muttered.
She relaxed her grip on the sword.
Immediately, it began to break apart—shimmering like metal dissolving in water, flowing up her wrist in a silver stream and sinking back into the tattoo.
It didn't vanish.
It returned—home.
A warmth bloomed under her skin, brief but real. And then the tattoo glowed faintly before fading back into its normal shape.
Cara looked at her arm, wide-eyed.
"No sheath. No need to carry it. It lives in me. Bloody brilliant!"
It was more than a weapon. It was her legacy made manifest as well as a bad ass tattoo.
She spent the next few minutes testing the Spirit Space.
It responded instantly to thought. A rock vanished when she focused on it. A broken branch—dead, dry—disappeared the same way. A fresh leaf? Rejected.
[Error: Living/Partially Living Material Cannot Be Stored]
"Right. No plants. No animals. No people," she muttered. "But dead things, objects, tools? Fair game."
She checked capacity—imagining the space expanding around her.
Three metres on each side. Enough to store a full camping kit, weapons, armor, tech, even vehicles if disassembled, unless its a mini.
Time didn't pass inside. Heat didn't radiate. It was a perfectly preserved stasis.
She slipped a small, smooth stone in and pulled it back out: dry, unchanged, identical.
"Alright," she said, nodding. "That's gonna be useful."
She could already see the possibilities: stashing weapons, disguises, intel, entire backpacks of gear she didn't want to carry. Smuggling tech. Carrying evidence. Even hiding wealth or artifacts if she played this right.
The kicker? Time was frozen inside. No decay. No rot. No heat signature.
It was a vault. A perfect one.
She smiled.
But then—
The system pulsed again.
[Cycle Completion: 2:00 Remaining]
Preparing Return to Physical Realm
Warning: Host body no longer in place of origin. New location confirmed.
Status: Hostile Presence Detected Nearby.
Activate Emergency Exit? Y/N
She froze.
"What do you mean, not in place of origin?"
The system didn't answer.
Just the quiet ticking of the timer, and a new prompt sliding into view:
[New Sub-Mission: Uncover Who Moved Your Body]
Time Limit: 48 Hours (Real World)
Reward: Intel Access Tier I, Bloodline Clue #1
Optional Objective: Identify Their Intentions
She inhaled slowly. Coldly.
Someone had moved her. While she lay dead—or close enough to it. That narrowed the list of suspects to dangerous people.
The forest began to dissolve around her, leaves turning to light, trees folding inward as if sucked into a void.
The sword reappeared in her hand one final time before flickering back into her forearm.
A last whisper slipped into her mind:
"They thought you were gone, Cara. Let them believe it… until it's too late."
The Silent Observer
He saw her fall through the rain.
A dark shape against the city skyline, hurtling downward in a blur of soaked clothing, limbs flailing, a glint of something silver tumbling behind her like a severed thread.
The shot had echoed a second before. He'd felt it through the glass of his window, not heard it. Muffled. Suppressed. Professional.
But her fall?
That had made no sound at all.
He didn't hesitate.
His apartment was across from the derelict building she'd tried to leap from—a three-floor unit with blacked-out windows, soundproofed walls, and enough surveillance feeds to make MI6 twitch. He kept the lights low, curtains shut, air silent but never still. The hum of machines filled every corner.
He was already on the move before she hit the ground.
Six seconds.
Barefoot. Hoodie pulled on. Bag slung over his shoulder.
By the time her body landed in the gravel space between buildings, the city barely noticed. Just another sound swallowed by rain.
But he saw.
He knelt beside her in the alley, hood dripping with rain.
Her chest wasn't moving.
She was pale, blood soaking the front of her clothes, pooling beneath her. A bullet wound. Close-range. Professional.
Dead.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached toward her neck—not to check her pulse, but to touch the strange necklace that still glowed faintly against her skin.
And then—
She shuddered.
Once.
Not a gasp. Not a breath. But something like… resistance. Like she had just been shocked.
Alive?
No. Not quite. Not yet.
But something in her was changing.
He stared, eyes wide, heart hammering.
Then he made a decision.
He picked her up.
He was tall—lean with long arms and broad shoulders, though one was twisted ever so slightly, an old injury never treated right. His face might have been handsome, once—still was, mostly—except for the burn that snaked from jaw to temple on the left side, half-hidden beneath shaggy dark hair.
He never let anyone see that side. Or any side, really.
He didn't speak.
He Couldn't.
Hadn't uttered a sound since he was twelve.
He preferred it that way.
He moved through the shadows of the city like he belonged to them, weaving her body in his arms through alleyways, side streets, ducking CCTV, avoiding people. He knew where the blind spots were. He made some of them himself.
He took her to his bunker apartment—a fortress of wires and steel and silence.
Laid her on the low bed beneath the window.
Removed her hoodie carefully.
He paused when he saw the scar under her ribs—an old wound, surgical. And the tattoos, all a road map of places of conflict. Military.
Then the necklace again. It pulsed softly.
He backed up.
Sat.
Watched.
His name, if anyone still cared, was Wren.
At least that's what the underground knew him as—Wren72, top-tier net-crawler, darknet broker, ex-black-hat gone freelance. A ghost behind the firewall.
He hadn't been touched by real life in a long time.
But something about her…
She wasn't a civilian. She was trained. Built. And someone had just tried to erase her, clean and surgical.
Which meant she mattered.
And for some unknown reason he wanted to know why.
He leaned back in his chair, picked up his tablet and brought up a system overlay of her face—quick facial scan, run through his own local servers, his own secret passages.
No hits.
Wiped. Hidden.
Or protected?
He raised an eyebrow, more curious now than ever.
The girl on his bed wasn't just a mystery.
She was off the grid.
And something told him she wouldn't stay unconscious forever.
Wren sat beside the bed, drenched, hoodie dripping onto the floor.
She hadn't stirred in over an hour.
Her skin was clammy, face bloodless. The wound at her chest had stopped bleeding—mostly—but the damage was real. Deep. Ragged.
He'd seen wounds like that before.
And what came after.
She needed cleaning. Dressing. She'd survive the bullet—somehow—but not the infection. Not if lying in wet clothes, unconscious, caked in blood and God-knows-what else.
His jaw tightened. He hated this part.
He stood slowly, grabbed a towel, a small tin basin, and a bottle of antiseptic from the storage cabinet under the sink. He paused, staring at her unmoving form, the blood on her neck, collar, chest. Her clothes stuck to her skin.
He took a moment to clear his mind then moved like a medic.
Clinical. Efficient. Not a beautiful woman laying here – a body.
He started with her boots, then peeled off the socks—wet and torn. The jeans came next, soaked and stiff with blood at the thighs. He noted older bruises. Faded scars.
She'd lived through worse than this. That much was clear.
Hello Kitty underwear. His lips twitched. Almost smiled.
Her hoodie and shirt were last. He hesitated at the edge of her tank top, fingers curling slightly.
Then he breathed out slowly through his nose and pulled it over her head with practiced care.
Her chest was wrapped in a tight bandage—military style, practical, layered and precise. She hadn't just survived.
She'd been trained to.
He snipped the ruined bandage away and cleaned the wound, frowning as the bullet hole seemed shallower than it should have been. No exit wound. No slug to remove. The edges were already starting to seal—not normal healing.
Accelerated?
He didn't know. But he cleaned it anyway—gently wiping away blood, using warm water and antiseptic, then patting her dry with the towel. She didn't flinch. No movement. No sound. An ECG/EKG machine would have called her gone.
But something inside her burned.
He could feel it. See it in the shimmer under her skin. The faint pulse from that strange necklace. Like it was doing the healing for her. Casting a glow on the swell of her breasts. Another twitch of the lips as he gazed at them.
Still, he wrapped the wound. Gauze, tape, tight and secure. Then retrieved a clean long-sleeve shirt from the drawer—his own, loose enough to drape on her small frame—and dressed her in it without letting himself think.
He moved her gently, lifting her like glass, resting her back against a fresh pillow.
Only when she was clean, dry, and safe did he allow himself to sit.
His hands shook slightly.
Not from nerves. From memory.
Of hospital beds. Of a far-off place. Of hands he couldn't save. Voices he couldn't hear anymore. Of desertion by the country he served.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.
The hum of the computers steadied him.
She was breathing now—slow, faint, but steady.
He glanced at her, still frowning, still uncertain why he had done any of this.
Then, reluctantly, he signed a word to no one.
Why?
She didn't answer.
But the necklace did.
It pulsed once.
Then her fingers twitched.