Pain was the first sensation. Not the sharp, clean agony of a spear through the chest, but a dull, throbbing ache that seemed to live in every bone of his body. It was a pathetic kind of pain. The pain of weakness.
Kaelen's eyes fluttered open. The ceiling was not the grand, vaulted stone of a command tent, nor the endless sky of a battlefield. It was cracked plaster, stained with water spots. He was lying on a mattress that was thin, lumpy, and smelled of dust and old sweat. He pushed himself up, his muscles protesting with a feeble burn. The room was small, barely a closet. A rickety wooden desk was shoved into one corner, a chipped water basin on top of it. A single, grimy window showed a gray, overcast sky.
This wasn't his body.
He knew it instantly. His body was a weapon, honed by thirty years of relentless training. It was a scarred landscape of strength and endurance. This body… it was light. Frail. He looked at his hands. They were small, slender, with uncalloused fingers and pale skin. The hands of a boy.
A wave of dizziness washed over him, and with it came a flood of memories. Not his memories. They belonged to the boy whose body he now inhabited. A sixteen year old orphan, also named Kaelen. A student at the Crimson Rock Academy, a third rate institution for those with little talent or money. This boy was known for one thing. Being the weakest student in the entire first year class. Mana affinity, Rank F. The lowest possible. He was a charity case, allowed to stay out of some long forgotten pity, and served as the favorite punching bag for a group of bullies.
The cause of death for this boy had been a simple sickness. A fever his malnourished body couldn't fight off. He had died alone in this tiny dorm room. Undiscovered for a full day.
Kaelen stumbled out of bed, his new legs shaky. He caught sight of himself in a cracked piece of mirror hanging on the wall. A thin boy with a mop of unruly black hair stared back. His face was all sharp angles and pale skin, dominated by large, dark eyes that held a flicker of a fury that didn't belong to them. This was his new face. A canvas of weakness. The rage that had consumed him in his final moments resurfaced. A cold, hard fire. Betrayed. Sacrificed. For what? For a coward's paranoia.
"Emperor Valerius," he whispered, the name tasting like poison. The boy's voice was reedy, thin. Nothing like his own thunderous command. He would have his revenge. He didn't care if it took a lifetime. It seemed he had a new one to use.
A strange thought crossed his mind, a memory of the voice in the void. 'System'.
As soon as he focused on the word, a transparent blue screen shimmered into existence before his eyes. Only he could see it. It was stark, simple, and filled with information that made his heart beat faster.
[Kaelen]
[Level: 1]
[Status: Weakened]
[Health: 30/30]
[Mana: 5/5]
[Strength: 4]
[Agility: 5]
[Endurance: 3]
[Intelligence: 9]
[Unique Skill: Soul Devour (Rank F)]
His stats were abysmal. Weaker than an average peasant farmer. His only hope was that Unique Skill. He focused his intent on it.
[Soul Devour (Rank F)]
Description: The host possesses the unique ability to devour the soul remnants of defeated enemies. The soul provides nourishment to the System.]
Effects:
1. Upon an enemy's death, the host may devour their soul remnant.
2. There is a 1% chance to permanently absorb one of the target's skills.
3. There is a 10% chance to permanently absorb 0.1% of the target's core stats.
Kaelen's eyes widened. The percentages were terrible. Laughably bad. To gain any real power, he would need to kill a mountain of enemies. But it was a path. A bloodsoaked, brutal path, but a path nonetheless. In his previous life, he had been a master of strategy, turning unfavorable odds into stunning victories. This was just another battlefield. A different kind of war. One he would wage from the shadows. He was no longer a Grand Marshal in shining armor. He was a ghost with a grudge.
His stomach growled, a hollow, painful sound. He hadn't eaten in what felt like days. He remembered the original Kaelen had a small stash of dried bread hidden under a loose floorboard. As he pried it open, the door to his room was kicked open with a loud bang.
Three older students sauntered in. The one in the lead was broad shouldered, with a sneer permanently etched on his face. Joric. The son of some minor merchant, whose meager influence was enough to make him a king among the poor at this academy. The other two, Pike and Glyn, were his usual lackeys.
"Well, look who decided to crawl out of his deathbed," Joric sneered, his eyes falling on the bread in Kaelen's hands. "Feeling better, orphan? Just in time to pay your monthly wellness tax."
Pike laughed, a high pitched, annoying sound. "Yeah, Joric's good well being depends on your contribution, Kaelen."
Kaelen remained silent, his dark eyes calmly assessing them. He could see their movements, telegraphing their intentions. His mind, the mind of a Grand Marshal, analyzed them as it would any enemy. Joric was overconfident, his stance wide open. Pike was a coward, always staying a step behind. Glyn was just stupid, his eyes darting around nervously. They were weak. But so was he. In a direct confrontation, this frail body would break.
"What's wrong, worm? Cat got your tongue?" Joric took a step forward. "Give me the food and whatever coppers you've been hiding, and we'll just rough you up a little bit. For old times sake."
Kaelen slowly straightened up, his movements deliberate. The cold fire in his eyes intensified. He clutched the stale bread in his hand. This would be his first test. His mind raced, formulating a dozen different plans, searching for the one that would let him walk away from this. The one that would let him begin his long, slow climb.