The golden icon of the [Novice's Starter Pack] spun slowly in the dark, like a lone star above an abyss, dazzling in its stillness.
Finn fixed his will upon it."Open."
No burst of radiance came. The icon simply shattered in silence, dissolving into a thin streak of cyan light that pierced between his brows.
At once, knowledge flooded him—swordplay, killing intent, the weight of countless drills seared into his soul like brands of iron. The stance of the grip. The arc of a strike. The breath that lent power to a cut. The footwork of evasion. Each became instinct as natural as breathing, as though he had practiced for years without pause.
The Crimson Reaver Style.
The name rose unbidden. This was no art of elegance—it sought only death. Every motion was sharpened for efficiency, each strike distilled from bloodshed itself. The Hundred-Forged Blade in his hand seemed to resonate in answer; the rough hemp wrap bit tighter around his palm, the steel's weight settling into perfect balance, as if it were not a weapon but an extension of his arm.
Strength. Technique. But not enough. Finn's gaze shifted back to the glaring "0" in the corner of the interface. He needed coin.
A memory flickered. The boy whose body he now wore had hidden a pouch beneath the third floor-stone under his bed—his mother's keepsake, ten gold coins at most, but enough for two draws.
Finn knelt, running his fingers along the seams. The stone edge rasped beneath his nails, gritty with age. He pried the loose slab free.
Empty.
Only a shallow hollow remained. Not a single copper left behind.
His heart sank, cold creeping up his spine. Only one other soul knew of this hiding place—his handmaid, Lyna. The timid girl with her downcast smile, who had quietly trimmed his lamp and brought him water with soft hands when coughing wracked his chest.
Stone was not the coldest thing in Blackwind Keep.
Rustling footsteps broke his thoughts. Voices murmured outside the door.
"…The medicine should've finished him by now, shouldn't it?" A woman's voice, sultry yet impatient. Lyna.
"What's the hurry?" A coarse growl replied. "Lord Hagen said we make sure the brat's good and dead before we haul him out. His life's tougher than you think."
Finn's breath froze. He pressed his ear against the rough wood, the fibers blurring the sound but not its weight. Every word drove into him like a poisoned needle.
"Brother Bart, please—quickly, I'm afraid—"
"Afraid of what? That sick whelp's not about to leap up and bite you. Once we dump him in Wolf's Howl Valley, Blackwind Keep belongs to Lord Hagen. You'll get your share. With that gold you squirreled away, plus Hagen's reward, you'll live in style down in the lowlands." The man chuckled, thick with lechery.
"…Then should we go in now?"
"Yeah. Unbar the door—we'll drag him out."
The soft rasp of metal at the latch.
Finn straightened slowly. The last haze of a modern man's confusion burned away, leaving only a silence colder than the abyss. He slid into the shadows beside the door, knees bent, hands locked on the grip of the Hundred-Forged Blade. His heartbeat steadied, heavy and deliberate, pumping strength into every limb.
The latch clicked.
The door creaked open, firelight spilling in to stretch a hulking shadow across the floor.
As the first step crossed the threshold, Finn moved.
No roar, no warning. He was a bowstring loosed, a blur erupting from the dark. The stone underfoot shuddered with the push.
The Crimson Reaver Style took him wholly.
Steel flashed.
A scarlet arc ripped the air, swift as lightning.
Bart "The Butcher" had no time to see the room, only a sudden chill at his throat. His scowl froze, his eyes wide with shock, confusion dawning too late. His mouth worked, but only a wet hiss escaped as a red line opened beneath his jaw. Blood fountained.
The giant toppled forward with a crash, the room shaking under his weight.
Hot blood spattered Finn's face, reeking of iron. He didn't look down. One stride carried him over the corpse, his eyes fixed on the doorway—on the figure frozen there.
Lyna.
Her pupils shrank to pinpoints, the wire still clutched in her trembling hand. Her lips parted, but no sound came. She stared at Finn as though a wraith had risen from its grave to claim her soul.
He closed the distance in an instant. The blade's point kissed the softness of her throat, its chill shuddering through her frame.
"M… my lord…" Her voice quaked, tears spilling at once. "I—I was forced! It was Bart… it was Lord Hagen—he made me—"
"The gold."
The words were flat. Stone drenched in ice water.
Her pleas died on her tongue. All her rehearsed excuses and desperate bargains crumbled before those two syllables. She looked into his eyes and found no fury, no mercy—only a depthless void that made her spirit quake.
This was no longer the frail young master who had once blushed when she offered him soup.
"In… in my chamber," she stammered, "beneath the floorstone… the bed—"
Finn nodded. Answer enough.
Relief flitted across her face. A broken smile, eager, servile. "My lord, I'll give you everything—"
The blade sang.
Steel slid home with the ease of brushing away a leaf. Finn turned without a glance at the body collapsing behind him.
In Lyna's room, the pouch was easy to find. Heavy in his hand. Inside, neat stacks of gold coins gleamed, three hundred strong under the lamplight.
Back in his chamber, Finn barred the door and spilled them across the table.
[Gold detected. Recharge?]
"All of it."
The coins vanished. The counter in the interface blazed upward from zero, halting at 312.
Finn wasted no time. His will struck the wheel."Draw."
The spin. The light.
[Reward: Refined Leather Armor (Common)]
"Again."
[Reward: 3× Antidote Potion (Common)]
Over a hundred coins remained. His pulse quickened. The icons spun. A scroll glowed teal on the wheel's rim. His focus locked.
"Last—ten draws!" Nearly all the gold.
Light flared, brighter than ever. The wheel clattered to a halt—on the scroll.
[Congratulations! Reward: The Aegis Heart Method (Uncommon)]
Yes!
The torrent hit him harder than ever. Knowledge, technique, power surged into his mind. Deep within, his Vital Essence stirred, drawn, refined, compressed—becoming something denser, sharper, a new force: Inner Force.
It roared through him like a hatchling wyrm, battering the pathways of his Energy Channels.
Pain lanced. He choked, a hot taste in his throat, as two major channels burst open. Agony gave way to release. The Inner Force streamed smoothly now, an endless cycle, suffusing flesh and spirit alike.
His senses sharpened—mice gnawing wood in the next chamber, the lingering tang of blood in the air.
He stared down at his hands. Strength coiled in his palms.
Adept Rank 1.
At last, he had a foothold in this savage world.
[Major breakthrough detected. Reward: One targeted draw granted.]
And to Finn's ears, that chime was no less than the voice of heaven.