I am Ryn Asterin.
To my enemies, I am a flaw in reality itself—
an existence that should have been erased the moment it was born.
But that is not how I see myself.
I am a peace carver.
Reality has a cruel sense of irony. The thing you desire most is always the thing it denies you most fiercely. In my case, that was never power, nor authority, nor conquest.
It was a simple life.
That life burned away long ago, reduced to ash by wars I never asked for. I was just a boy who wanted quiet days, familiar faces, and a future that didn't demand blood as payment. Instead, I was given strength, isolation, and enemies that multiplied the more I survived.
Is it fair?
No.
But fairness was never part of reality's contract.
Now I stand at a point where stopping is impossible. If I hesitate, I'll be crushed. If I retreat, everything I've endured becomes meaningless. So I move forward—not because I want to, but because reality leaves me no other path.
I don't want to rule the cosmos.
I don't want to be feared.
I don't even want to be remembered.
I want peace.
The kind I once imagined back on Earth—quiet mornings, ordinary worries, and a life where strength wasn't required just to exist.
Sometimes, I think about being understood. About sharing that silence with someone else. Marriage crosses my mind more often than I admit. Not out of desire alone—but out of exhaustion.
Yet I fear it.
Not women.
Not intimacy.
I fear losing the small, fragile peace I've built around myself. I fear becoming responsible for another heart when I can barely protect my own. I fear that letting someone too close will cost me the only sanctuary I still possess.
So I keep my distance.
I discipline my thoughts.
Not because temptation doesn't exist—but because I cannot afford to fall to it.
Power demands restraint.
Loneliness is the toll.
Whether this emptiness is depression or simply the cost of survival, I no longer care to distinguish.
But I walk forward anyway.
Toward the Twelfth Path.
---
I had no choice.
The dungeon never asks what you want.
When I arrived, the space opened into a vast cavern—wide as a cathedral, carved entirely from ancient stone. At its center stood a dragon.
Three heads.
Behind it rested a single chest.
The task was clear.
Kill it.
I didn't hesitate.
The first head exhaled flames.
The second screamed with a force that shattered my balance.
The third froze the ground beneath my feet before the fire even reached me.
I died.
Again.
And again.
The elements changed each time.
Water. Wind. Light. Ice. Flame.
The dragon shifted effortlessly, cycling through elements as if they were instincts rather than spells. This was not adaptation—it was mastery.
The system denied my domain.
My vessel was sealed.
My strongest spells required water—scarce in this cavern.
Even the Flame of Despair demanded proximity.
And getting close meant death.
This dragon was not designed to be defeated.
It was designed for continuous war.
I tried patience.
I waited for it to sleep.
The moment I approached, it woke—and killed me instantly.
Only after countless deaths did I understand.
The dungeon would not allow my observation phase to end early.
I could not die permanently until I understood the nature of my failure.
Blood poured from my body like water. Bones shattered again and again. Organs ruptured. My soul screamed—but not loudly enough to be released.
More than ten thousand deaths.
A number I had never reached before.
Then a message appeared.
[Curse Weaver: Still alive?]
[How disappointing.]
I laughed weakly.
"Yes. Unfortunately."
[Curse Weaver: You truly believed you could kill a dragon with what you have now?]
[How fragile mortals are—mistaking persistence for capability.]
"I know," I answered, my voice hollow. "I can't."
[Curse Weaver: Then stop embarrassing yourself here.]
[Go to the God Summoning Trial.]
"One more path?" I asked.
A pause.
Not silence—consideration.
[Curse Weaver: A tournament.]
[Top five survivors earn the right to choose a weapon.]
[Think of it as charity.]
"So," I said, bitterness slipping through my exhaustion,
"this is entertainment for you."
[Curse Weaver: Of course.]
[But I will sweeten it.]
[Curse Weaver: Take first place.]
[And I will erase one dungeon path entirely.]
My fingers curled.
"…Fine."
A laugh echoed through the dungeon—not kind, not cruel.
Amused.
[Curse Weaver: Try not to bore me, child.]
[. — Author's Note —
my regular test has started as boards are coming so ch would release late but would come 1 per week confirmly ]