Ethan sat against the cold stone wall of the labyrinth, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. His legs trembled as though the weight of survival itself pressed down on them. Around him, the last embers of the dungeon boss's flames smoldered, leaving only smoke and silence.
The notification still hovered in his vision, faintly glowing, as if it mocked his disbelief.
[You have been awarded the Title: The Lone Quill]
[Effect Unlocked: Script Prediction (Beginner)]
[System Note: The Gods are watching you.]
He swallowed hard, fingers tightening around nothing. His hands felt empty. Powerless.
"Script Prediction," he muttered under his breath. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
The words were still strange to him, like phrases stolen from his own stories but twisted into reality. He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the moment in the fight where everything seemed to slow down the flicker of the boss's claw, the way his body had moved before he even consciously reacted. It wasn't instinct. It was like… someone had whispered the answer to him just in time.
That whisper had saved his life.
[Effect Demonstration: Active]
Suddenly, text scrolled before his eyes.
[Observation: Trap ahead hidden floor tile. Estimated trigger in 0.7 seconds if stepped upon.]
Ethan blinked, jerking his head toward the corridor. He had been about to stagger forward, but now he froze. Just as the system warned, he saw the faintest glint of a mechanism between the tiles.
"If I'd stepped on that…" he whispered.
A moment later, another player party trudged into the hall. Four of them, armed with proper swords and staves, their armor polished, their voices confident. They didn't see Ethan in the shadows. The lead warrior stepped exactly on that tile.
Click.
Arrows fired from the walls, raining down on them. Screams echoed as one fell, another barely raised a shield in time. The corridor erupted in chaos.
Ethan's heart thudded. Not with pity. Not with fear. But with the realization that the system had given him a glimpse into the script itself.
"…This is my power," he breathed.
The party eventually limped away, dragging their wounded comrade. One of them noticed Ethan as they passed. Their eyes lingered on him a lone figure sitting against the dungeon wall, bloodied but alive.
Whispers began.
"That's him. The one who cleared it alone."
"Impossible. No solo clears here. He must've cheated."
"Then why is the system broadcasting his name?"
"Look at his eyes… like he knows something we don't."
Ethan said nothing. He kept his gaze low, but inside, his mind churned.
So they already knew. His survival wasn't just noticed by the gods it was noticed by the players.
Later, when he emerged from the labyrinth floor, the hub city greeted him with its noise and lights. Market stalls shouted prices, mercenaries boasted of their kills, and guild recruiters eyed potential talent like hawks. The air smelled of roasted meat, smoke, and coin.
But as Ethan walked through the crowd, he felt it.
Eyes on him.
Some were curious. Others suspicious. A few, downright hostile.
"Solo-cleared a dungeon, did he?" a merchant whispered to another.
"No way. The system must've bugged. Or he exploited something."
"Still… he's alive, isn't he? And alone."
Ethan clenched his fists. He wasn't strong. He wasn't skilled. And yet, this strange title had painted a target on his back.
That night, in a quiet corner of the city's tavern, he finally dared to test his power. He placed a rusty dagger on the table before him the only weapon he had scavenged from the dungeon.
"Script Prediction," he whispered.
His vision flickered.
[Weapon Analysis: Rusted Dagger. Durability: 12/50. Chance of breakage under stress: 43%. Inefficient. Replace soon.]
The words blinked out. Ethan stared at the blade. His lips curled into a shaky smile.
"…It's like I can read the margin notes of reality itself."
For the first time in years, he felt something stirring in his chest. Not despair. Not bitterness. But possibility.
A chair scraped behind him. Ethan tensed. A tall man in polished armor sat down opposite him, slamming his gauntlet on the table. His guild crest glowed faintly on his chestplate.
"You."
Ethan looked up slowly.
"You're the solo," the man said. His voice was low, dangerous. "Our guild lost two members in that same dungeon today. And here you are, alive. Alone. How?"
Ethan's mind raced. Should he tell the truth? Should he bluff?
"…Luck," he said flatly.
The man's eyes narrowed. Then he laughed. A loud, booming laugh that turned heads across the tavern.
"Luck, he says! Hah! Fine. Luck or not, you've got guts." He leaned closer. "But luck runs out. Join us, or you won't last another floor."
Before Ethan could respond, a cold notification slid into view.
[System Notice: Player 'Garen of the Iron Fangs' has issued a Party Invitation.]
[Warning: Joining a guild may restrict solo progression and alter Title paths.]
Ethan's breath caught. Title paths? The system was practically warning him.
He shook his head. "I refuse."
The man's smile vanished. His hand clenched on the table, wood splintering under his grip.
"You'll regret that."
The guild's laughter followed Ethan as he left the tavern. But his mind was clear. The system had shown him a choice and he had chosen the lonely path.
Later, in the stillness of a rented room, Ethan sat cross-legged on the bed. His dagger lay beside him. His eyes were fixed on the faint glow of his notifications.
[Title: The Lone Quill – Active]
[Effect: You walk a path apart. Solo progression rate doubled. Party affinity decreased.]
[Effect: Script Prediction (Beginner) – allows limited foresight of enemy actions, traps, and object weaknesses.]
[Warning: The Gods have increased their Observation.]
He exhaled slowly.
The gods. Other players. Guilds. Enemies.
The entire world seemed aligned against him.
"…Fine," Ethan whispered. His hand rested on the dagger's hilt. "I'll write my story my way. Even if I have to carve it alone."
Outside, thunder rolled across the horizon. The labyrinth waited. And in the heavens above, unseen eyes lingered on the lone figure below the quill that had dared to write against the script.