Seth woke in a cold sweat. "Hah!"
The warped ceiling above him seemed to shift and bend with every blink, like the inn itself was still alive, breathing around him. His chest heaved, the memory of cloaked figures pressing in on him sharper than the air he gulped down.
He could still feel the mercenary's grip crushing his collarbone. He could still hear the whispers: doesn't belong… doesn't belong…
He rolled onto his side and groaned. His body was heavy, but his mind heavier. Even when B had appeared, even when the System had rewarded him, the truth had been carved into him like stone. He wasn't ready. He wasn't strong enough.
With a reluctant breath, he summoned the System interface.
The blue overlay flickered before his eyes, filling the dim room with its glow.
[Level: 2]
[Current EXP: 350/550]
[Available Stat Points: +4]
[Stats:
Strength: 10
Agility: 10
Endurance: 10]
Seth stared at the numbers. Four points. Four tiny little lifelines. But where to put them? Strength meant hitting harder. Agility meant dodging faster. Endurance meant lasting longer when things got ugly.
He rubbed his temples. "What good are numbers if I don't even know how to swing a fist properly?"
The interface didn't answer. It just pulsed faintly, waiting.
He sighed and dismissed it, dragging himself upright. The tavern's runed walls hummed faintly, a reminder that even here, safety was temporary. His body ached with hunger, so he followed the faint scent of food downstairs.
The common room was half-empty, though the patrons present were anything but ordinary. A woman with molten cracks running through her skin sipped from a steaming mug.
A man with a third eye etched into his forehead argued quietly with a cloaked trader. The sight still sent shivers down Seth's spine, but he forced himself to look away and slide into a seat.
B was already there. Masked, calm, posture so relaxed it was almost arrogant. A plate of something unrecognizable sat in front of him—meat that glistened unnaturally, paired with a bowl of grain that shifted like it was alive.
Another plate was pushed across the table toward Seth.
He frowned. "What… is this?"
B's tone was flat. "Breakfast."
Seth poked the meat with the edge of a fork. It jiggled, almost like jelly. He grimaced but forced himself to take a bite. The flavor was metallic, tangy, but edible.
They ate in silence for a while. Or at least, B did. Seth chewed nervously, eyes flicking to his companion's mask. The weight of yesterday still pressed down on him.
Finally, B broke the silence. "What do you plan to do now?"
Seth blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You've seen the streets," B said, voice smooth and unhurried. "You've seen what happens when you wander blind. So—what's your plan?"
Seth shifted uncomfortably. "I… I don't know yet. I just need to get stronger. I don't know how yet, but I will."
B cut him off. "Whatever method you end up choosing , you need to know, it's a tool. Draemhollow respects two things: strength and cunning. You've shown neither."
The words struck like a blade. Seth clenched his jaw, heat rising in his chest. He wanted to argue. He wanted to scream that he had survived, that he was trying, that everything here was alien and impossible. But the truth was undeniable. He hadn't fought back. He hadn't outsmarted anyone. He'd been herded like cattle.
His voice faltered. "I… I just need time."
B leaned back, folding his arms. His mask tilted slightly, unreadable. Then he spoke with quiet finality.
"A man without power here is already dead. Decide which kind you'll wield."
The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.
Seth lowered his gaze, shame gnawing at him. For once, B didn't elaborate, didn't press. He simply finished his meal, stood, and walked toward the tavern door, leaving Seth alone with his thoughts.
Strength or cunning. Power or death.
Seth's hands trembled as he pulled up the System again. This time, instead of the stats screen, he pressed deeper.
The System Store unfolded before him.
Rows of items shimmered into existence, their faint descriptions glowing faintly.
Rust-Tarnished Dagger – Cheap, dull, prone to breaking. (Cost: 50 EXP)
Cracked Leather Bracers – Offer minimal protection. (Cost: 60 EXP)
Stamina Draught (Single Use) – Restores energy, bitter aftertaste. (Cost: 30 EXP)
Iron Shard Buckler – Small shield, heavy. (Cost: 80 EXP)
The list went on, but most were far out of his reach. Enchanted blades, glowing armor, scrolls of forgotten magic—all tantalizing, all impossibly expensive.
He scrolled back to the top, eyes lingering on the dagger. It was pitiful. Nothing like the humming swords the mercenaries had carried, nothing like the shimmering spears he'd glimpsed in the marketplace. But it was something.
At least if I'm holding a blade, I won't feel completely helpless.
His finger hovered, then pressed.
The System chimed.
[Purchase Complete: Rust-Tarnished Dagger Acquired.]
[-50 EXP deducted.]
[Remaining EXP: 300.]
A faint shimmer of light appeared in his hand. When it cleared, he was holding it—a short blade with a chipped edge and a handle wrapped in frayed leather. It felt awkward, unbalanced, almost like it was daring him to cut himself by mistake.
Seth held it up, studying the dull sheen of rust along its edge.
It wasn't much. But it was his.
The System flared again.
[New Sub-Mission Unlocked: Training]
Practice with your weapon for at least 2 hours without stopping.]
[Reward: +200 EXP, +1 Agility.]
Seth exhaled, staring at the message. His lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. "Of course. Nothing's free, huh?"
For the first time since entering Draemhollow, he felt a flicker of something other than fear. Not confidence. Not yet. But direction.
He strapped the dagger to his waist, its weight foreign and reassuring all at once.
Maybe it was time to stop running.
The crooked alley behind the tavern smelled of damp stone and burnt oil. A single lantern flickered weakly at its entrance, barely pushing back the shadows. It was the kind of place rats thrived in, both the animal and human kind.
Perfect for hiding. Perfect for practice.
Seth drew the dagger from his belt. The blade looked even more pathetic under the pale light—rust eating into the edge, the leather grip loose. Still, it was heavier than he expected, and just holding it made his heartbeat slow a little.
"Alright," he muttered, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. "Two hours. Swing the damn thing. How hard can it be?"
He braced himself, lifted the dagger, and slashed through the air.
It nearly slipped from his grip.
"Shit!" He fumbled to catch it, the point grazing his boot before he yanked it upright again. His palms were already slick with sweat, and he'd barely started.
The System blinked faintly before his eyes.
[Progress: 1%]
Seth glared at the message. "You're mocking me, aren't you?"
Another swing—wild, clumsy. His stance was too narrow, his feet too heavy. He stumbled forward and almost fell. He tried again, this time stabbing straight ahead, but the blade wobbled, his wrist buckling under the strain.
It was ridiculous. He looked ridiculous.
But the System wasn't laughing.
[Grip stability: +0.2%]
[Slash efficiency: +0.1%]
Tiny improvements. Insignificant, but there.
Seth exhaled slowly. "Okay. Maybe… maybe I can do this."
He adjusted his grip, recalling how the mercenaries had held their weapons—firm but fluid, like the steel was part of their body. He tried to imitate it, though his dagger felt more like a brick in his hand than an extension of his arm.
Minutes bled into hours. His swings grew a little smoother. His stabs landed straighter, his feet shuffled into slightly better positions. The blade was still unbalanced, but his hands were learning its weight, his muscles remembering its awkwardness.
Sweat drenched him, soaking into his shirt. His shoulders ached, his wrists burned, his breath came heavy. Yet beneath the exhaustion, there was something new. A spark. A fragile, stubborn thread of determination.
He wasn't running this time. He wasn't hiding. He was doing.
The System pulsed again.
[Training Sub-Mission: Progress 95%]
He pushed harder. His swings were sloppy, his footing uneven, but he forced the movements anyway. His body screamed for rest, but the message dangled before him, just out of reach.
One last stab. One last slash.
[Training Sub-Mission Complete.]
[Reward: +200 EXP, +1 Agility.]
The notification glowed bright, almost triumphant. Seth dropped to one knee, panting, dagger clattering against the cobblestones. His shirt clung to his skin, his lungs begged for air, but his chest swelled with something he hadn't felt since arriving in this nightmare city.
Pride.
It wasn't much. Just swinging a blade in an alley. But for the first time, he felt like he had pushed forward instead of backward.
And then he heard it.
A voice.
"Another fool trying to grow teeth."
Seth's head snapped up.
A figure leaned against the alley's mouth, half-shrouded in shadow. Their cloak draped low, hood pulled deep, eyes glinting faintly in the lantern's light. For a moment, Seth thought it was one of the cloaked trackers from yesterday.
But the figure didn't advance. Didn't threaten. They just watched.
Seth gripped his dagger tighter, though his arms trembled from exhaustion. "Who the hell are you?"
The figure didn't answer. They chuckled—a low, unsettling sound—and turned away, melting into Draemhollow's crooked streets as though they'd never been there.
The silence that followed was worse than confrontation.
Seth's pulse thundered in his ears. He sagged against the wall, dagger limp in his hand. He wanted to chase, demand answers, but his body refused to move. And deep down, he already knew the truth. If he followed, he'd definitely not return.
He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold stone, sweat cooling on his skin. His breaths slowed, his vision dimmed, but his grip on the dagger didn't loosen.
For the first time, the fear inside him wasn't pure terror. It was sharper now, edged with something else.
Resolve.
If the city wanted to chew him up, he'd make sure it choked.