Aeron stumbled through the winding alleys, his steps uneven, each one dragging against the weight of fatigue. The day's ordeals pressed on him like invisible chains—pain, hunger, and the gnawing whisper of ambition clawing at the back of his mind. Power. Revenge. Survival. Each thought circled endlessly, tangled with the ominous presence of the book.
By the time his shack came into view, his breath was ragged. The sight offered no comfort. Wedged between leaning towers of stone and timber, the place looked more corpse than home—its roof sagging under mismatched planks, its walls patched with rusted scrap and mold-darkened cloth. The door groaned like a dying man when he pushed it open.
Inside, silence greeted him. The sparse room held little more than a scarred table, a handful of chipped utensils, and the rough wooden slab he called a bed. The air was sharp with cold, enough to make his fingers stiff.
"This place…" Aeron muttered, rubbing his hands for warmth, "…is falling apart." His eyes lingered on the stove, its rusted frame barely holding together.
Despite his exhaustion, he forced himself to work. He coaxed damp firewood into a reluctant flame and set a pot above it, watching thin curls of steam rise as meager ingredients softened into a watery stew. The smell was faint but comforting, his stomach growling in anticipation.
When at last he sat to eat, the cracked window across from him reflected his image in dim light: hollow eyes, pale skin, a frame wasted by weakness. His fingers brushed the sharp ridge of his cheekbone.
"I look like death warmed over," he muttered bitterly. Once, he'd been strong. Now, he was a shadow.
He ate in silence, forcing down every bland mouthful. When the bowl was empty, he leaned back, closing his eyes. The thought burned sharper than hunger: this body wasn't enough. Not for what he wanted. Not for what lay ahead.
---
With a steadying breath, he summoned the book. The air thickened, shadows stretching unnaturally as the tome materialized. Its dark cover gleamed under the firelight, like oil slick over water.
"What do you want now?" Aeron asked, weariness edged with irritation.
The pages shivered open, symbols glowing faintly across yellowed parchment. "You complain about weakness," the book said, its tone sharp. "Yet you hesitate to embrace the path before you."
Aeron's jaw tightened. "You think killing comes that easy? That I can just switch it on and stop caring?"
"The Death Law is not for the faint-hearted," the book replied coldly. "Power is taken, not given. Each life you end will strengthen you. Brutality feeds the bond. The more savage the death, the more potent your growth."
The words crawled into Aeron's spine, chilling him. He'd killed before, but survival had always been the reason. This was different. This was… deliberate.
The book's voice deepened. "There is more. My pages house a training ground. A realm steeped in death energy, where the law of mortality itself saturates the air. Survive it, and your strength will multiply."
Aeron's lips twisted into a grim smile. "Fine. Show me."
---
The room dissolved.
He stood in a wasteland. The ground stretched endlessly, blackened and split with deep cracks that bled a faint, gray mist. The sky was a sheet of oppressive ash, no sun, no stars—only stillness and the reek of decay. Every breath clawed at his lungs, filling them with fire and ash.
"This place…" Aeron whispered, clutching his chest. The land was barren, yet alive with something darker than life—the weight of countless deaths pressed into the soil itself.
The book hovered nearby. "This is the realm of death energy. Here, you will cultivate the Death Law, binding mortality to your will."
He took a step. Agony seized him at once. His lungs burned as though molten lead filled them, his skin cracked and blistered under invisible strain, and his vision fractured into shards of black and red. He stumbled back, choking, barely clinging to consciousness.
"I… I almost died."
"That is the point," the book said, unmoved. "This realm will break you, remake you, and if you survive—forge you into something beyond human."
---
The pages opened again, symbols glowing brighter now, shifting into intricate diagrams that pulsed with dark light.
"This," the book intoned, "is the cultivation manual of Death Law. Each mark carries guidance. Absorb the energy. Align it with your life force. Fail, and you will be consumed."
Aeron forced his gaze to the symbols, imprinting each detail into his mind. He sat cross-legged on the scorched earth and began.
The first attempt was agony. The death energy surged through his veins like molten fire, burning pathways where blood should flow. His muscles spasmed, his heart hammered, and for a moment he thought it would burst inside his chest.
But he endured.
Again and again he drew the hostile force inside him, guiding it with trembling focus. The process was meticulous, balancing on the knife-edge between life and obliteration. Hours stretched, though no sun marked the time.
Eventually, the fire eased. The death energy no longer lashed at him like a wild beast but coiled, waiting. Flowing. For the first time, Aeron felt it settle in him
A sharp exhale escaped his lips. A smile followed, tight but triumphant. "I did it… I can feel it."
The book's voice was flat. "You have taken a step. Nothing more."
"Always the pessimist," Aeron muttered, though his heart pounded with exhilaration. For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt… more than human.
---
Days bled together in the desolate realm. Cultivation was torment, each session pressing him to the brink, but slowly he adapted. Slowly he endured.
When he finally returned, the transition was jarring. The cracked walls of his shack replaced the wasteland in a blink. His body sagged with exhaustion, his stomach snarling viciously.
"One day outside," the book reminded, "is ten days in the realm."
Aeron devoured what scraps remained, each bite swallowed too quickly, barely chewed. Hunger roared through him, but even as it did, satisfaction hummed in his veins.
Then came the knock.
A heavy sound, deliberate, echoing against the weak door. Aeron groaned, dragging himself upright.
The man outside was massive, his presence radiating authority. He didn't speak, merely handed Aeron a folded paper before moving to the next shack.
Frowning, Aeron unfolded it. His breath caught.
An invitation. The academy. A chance that appeared only once every fifty years.
He sank back onto the slab of wood, the paper trembling faintly in his grip.
"…An academy," he whispered. "Another chance."
But his eyes, hollow moments ago, gleamed now with something sharper.
Not just chance. Opportunity.
The path of power was opening, and whether by death, blood, or ambition—he would walk it.