The cool, analytical energy of the System's reward faded, leaving Kaelen alone in the chilling dampness of the doorway.
The dull ache that remained was a vast improvement over the sharp agony from before, a tangible testament to the very real power he now wielded. Or, more accurately, that wielded him. This wasn't a benevolent gift; it was a transaction. He had spilled blood, and in return, he received the means to spill more.
He focused on the translucent blue screen hanging in his vision, a constant, ghostly companion. He willed it to show him more, and it complied, shifting to display his current state.
[Status]
Name: Kaelen
Race: Human (Magically Crippled)
Title: None
Evolution Stage: F- (Mundane)
Health: 47/100 (Stabilized, Bruised)
Mana: 0/0 (Mana Conduits Permanently Blocked)
Strength: 4
Agility: 5
Vitality: 6
Intelligence: 11
Wisdom: 14
Evolution Points: 100
A grim smile touched his bloodied lips. Magically Crippled. The words were a brand, a life sentence in this world. The stats were abysmally low, a perfect reflection of the body he now inhabited—a vessel deemed worthless by the standards of this reality. But the 100 Evolution Points glowed with a soft, persistent light, a numerical representation of potential. It was a seed. The only seed he had in this entire, hostile world.
He navigated the interface, finding the [Evolution] screen.
It was not a simple list of skills to purchase.
It was a sprawling, intricate star map of potential, a neural network of destiny.
His current "F- (Mundane)" node pulsed faintly at the center, a dim star in a vast cosmos of power. From it, dim, dormant pathways stretched out into a dizzying constellation of possibilities, most greyed out and inaccessible.
[Available Evolutionary Pathways from F- (Mundane)]:
> <｜place▁holder▁no▁788｜> Path of the Mage-Knight: Requires [Mana Conduits Unlocked]. A balanced path of arcane might and martial prowess. Cost: 500 EP.
> <｜place▁holder▁no▁787｜> Path of the Blooded Brawler: Enhance physicality directly through combat, pain, and survival. Focus on Strength, Agility, Vitality. Cost: 100 EP.
> <｜place▁holder▁no▁790｜> Path of the Arcane Scholar: Requires [Mana Conduits Unlocked]. Focus on knowledge, ritual magic, and understanding the fabric of reality. Cost: 450 EP.
> <｜place▁holder▁no▁789｜> Path of the System Host (Unique): Deepen your connection to the System itself. Unlocks advanced System functionalities, analysis, and unique non-magical abilities. Cost: 150 EP.**
He was locked out of the magical paths. Of course. The "Magically Crippled" tag saw to that, a door slammed shut before he even knew it existed.
The Blooded Brawler was the obvious, brute force choice. It was a path of immediate, tangible power, paid for in the currency of violence he had just barely survived.
But the System Host path called to him on a deeper level. It was the source of his second chance.
To understand it was to understand the rules of this new, deadly game he was forced to play. What was this System? Who, or what, had created it? His scientific mind from his past life itched with the need to know. But 150 points was a mountain he couldn't yet climb.
His stomach growled, a sharp, painful cramp that violently pulled him from his cosmic musings. Philosophy was a luxury for the fed and the safe. Survival first.
Pushing himself up, his body protesting with new and interesting aches, he ventured deeper into the shadows of the Veridian capital's underbelly.
The city, he was learning, was a creature of stark contrasts. In the distance, he could see the gleaming white spires of the upper districts, where the air probably smelled of perfume and powerful magic. Down here, in the roots of the city, it was a labyrinth of narrow, filth-strewn streets that never saw the full light of the twin moons.
The air was a thick, visceral cocktail of rotting garbage, exotic spices from the dock markets, and the faint, ever-present ozone tang of magic that drifted down from above—a constant reminder of what was denied to him.
He was a ghost moving through a waking world. People jostled past him—hard-eyed merchants with guarded carts, hulking city guards in worn leather armor, and weary laborers trudging home after a long shift.
They all ignored the bloodstained youth as just another piece of the city's human refuse, another broken thing destined to be swept away. He was invisible, and for now, that was a profound blessing.
His goal was simple, a triage of needs: find food, find shelter, understand the value of his 100 EP in this new economy. He found a grimy tavern tucked between a tannery and a pawnshop, a place called "The Grumbling Troll."
The sign was so faded it was almost unreadable, and the clientele looked like they'd stab you for a copper coin and then debate the philosophical implications over a cheap ale. Perfect. He slipped inside, the smoky, sour air hitting him like a physical wall. He claimed a shadowed corner table, his back to the wall, and began the tedious work of observation.
An hour of listening to drunken slurs, bartered deals, and fragmented gossip taught him two crucial things. First, the currency was a simple hierarchy: copper, silver, and gold crowns.
The bread he desperately wanted likely cost a copper or two. Second, and more chilling, the city guard was already actively looking for a "disruptive element" that had assaulted the son of a minor noble in the eastern district.
Darian's family was already moving, their influence reaching into the dirtiest corners of the city. A cold knot tightened in his stomach. The world wasn't just indifferent; it was actively trying to crush him again.
"You look like you lost a fight with a manure cart and the cart won."
The voice was low, smooth, and came from directly beside him. He hadn't even heard her approach, a feat that sent a fresh jolt of alarm through his system.
His [Combat Instinct], a nascent feeling he was still learning to trust, hadn't even twitched.
He turned, his body tensing automatically. The woman leaning against the wall next to his table was shrouded in worn, dark leathers that hugged a lithe, athletic frame with practical efficiency. A hood shadowed most of her face, but he could see the sharp, defiant line of her jaw and a hint of a cynical smirk on her lips. Her eyes, a striking and intelligent amber, scanned him with detached amusement, lingering on his bruised face and torn clothes.
"And you look like you're trying too hard to be mysterious," Kaelen shot back, his voice raspy from disuse and the recent screaming. The words came out with a surprising lack of fear. What did he have left to lose that wasn't already forfeit?
She let out a short, genuine laugh, a surprisingly warm sound in the gloomy tavern. "Fair enough." She slid into the seat opposite him without invitation, placing two thick slices of coarse bread and a wedge of hard, yellow cheese on the scarred table between them. "You also look hungry. Eat."
It was a test. A kind one, maybe, or a predatory one. His pride from his old life, the man who had owned a home and a career, screamed at him to refuse.
The animal survival instinct of his new one, the creature that had head-butted a noble in a muddy alley, screamed to take it. The animal won. He snatched the food and devoured it, the simple, robust flavors exploding in his mouth like a gourmet feast. He barely tasted it, his body demanding the fuel.
"Lyra," she said simply, watching him eat with those keen, observant eyes.
"Kaelen."
"I know." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that barely carried over the tavern's din. "The whole eastern district knows.
Darian's nose is a permanent, crooked souvenir of your... unexpected awakening. His father's guards are offering a silver crown for reliable information. A paltry sum, in my opinion. Reveals how little they actually value him."
So that was her angle. An information broker. A predator of secrets. "I don't have a silver crown," he said flatly, finishing the last of the cheese.
"I'm not here for the guard's coin," she replied, her smirk returning, sharper this time. "I'm here because a magically crippled orphan who suddenly finds the vicious guts to break a noble's nose is far more interesting than a silver crown.
People like you, Kaelen, are a rarity. You either die quickly... or you change things. The city is a stagnant pond. I enjoy the ripples."
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling actual strength return to his limbs. "What do you want?"
"A story. For now." She pushed a small, worn leather pouch across the table. It clinked softly with a promise he could barely comprehend. "Enough copper to get you a real meal and a roof over your head for a night or two. Nothing extravagant. Consider it an investment."
"And what's the return on your investment?" he asked, his gaze steady. He was no one's pawn.
"We'll see." She stood up, as silently and fluidly as she had arrived. "A word of advice, Kaelen. The Arena of the Unblooded is always looking for fresh meat.
It's a quick way to die. But..." Her amber eyes glinted in the dim light, holding his. "It's also a quick way to earn coin and a reputation, if you've got the kind of pragmatic skill you showed in that alley." She paused, her gaze seeming to look right through him, into the very interface he thought was hidden. "And maybe a way to spend those... Evolution Points you're so intently focused on."
Then, she was gone, melted back into the tavern's shifting crowd before he could even process her final, earth-shattering sentence.
She knew.
The bread and cheese in his stomach turned to lead. How? How could she possibly know about the System? The interface was invisible to others, he was sure of it. It was a part of his soul, not a physical spell. Was she a mage of some kind? A seer? Or was her perception and intuition just that terrifyingly sharp?
His mind raced, the implications crashing down around him. He was not as safe, not as hidden as he thought. The Arena. It was a brutal suggestion, a gladiatorial pit for the desperate. But it aligned perfectly with the [Path of the Blooded Brawler].
Combat. Survival. It was a direct, violent path to power, the only one currently open to him.
He looked down at the pouch of coins, a tangible anchor in the whirlwind of his new existence. Then he looked inward, at the [Evolution] screen still hovering in the periphery of his vision. Lyra had thrown him a lifeline, but it was a line that led directly into a den of lions.
He had a little money, a dangerous suggestion, and a terrifying secret that might not be as secret as he believed.
The weakling was dead. The survivor was fed. Now, the fighter had to be born.
The path ahead was clear, paved with blood and sand. All he had to do was take the first step.