The bowl sat there, yet Robin's gut kept twisting. After dropping it aside, he gave standing another shot.
His legs trembled close to giving way.
Justin's strategy sense snapped awake. Check the resource, use if possible.
But this time, it was him the weak kid fading away.
Robin pushed up slowly, leaning on the wall with one palm. Getting to the mirror needed focus. Every move mixed effort with shaky legs.
The reflection still looked bad. Hollowed cheeks instead. Dark circles under eyes that seemed way too big. Pale skin with blue veins showing through.
He tugged at his shirt, lifting it slowly. The bones in his chest were clearly visible, jutting out sharply. Not just thin this was a kid's body wasted away. Starvation wasn't an accident; it came from the tiny scraps they served him.
Robin put his hand on his chest, hunting for that inner mana lump folks always talked about. Took a sec then he hit it.
A flicker. Not even steady. Just a weak glow, as if one shaky breath could kill it.
He'd come across mana cores plenty of times battled next to fighters with blazing ones, burning bright as tiny stars, pumping raw energy into their veins. Wizards capable of flattening entire structures. Soldiers so fast they vanished mid-step.
This part deep down wasn't central at all more like a jab. Instead of essence, it felt like mockery.
[CURRENT MANA CAPACITY: 12/100]
[MANA REGENERATION: 0.5 PER HOUR]
The system didn't hold back it gave a harsh score. Just twelve points. A fighter ranked F usually hit fifty or more. Justin? He once reached B-level. That meant three hundred points, enough to boost his strength when fighting.
Robin snorted once more, sharp, like glass breaking. Yet that hollow tone returned.
"F-minus," he muttered. "They weren't exaggerating."
He'd caught rumors about Robin Stark back then, back when he still lived another life. A doomed third kid showing up when the Void cracked wide. That night, the heavens tore apart, dumping creatures that slaughtered tons of people.
A real-life jinx. One step, trouble follows.
The Duke's shame.
He finally got it, this dusty room was meant to hide him away. The staff slipped scraps under the door, nothing more than survival portions. Nobody showed up to tutor or drill skills into him. Recognition? Not a chance from anyone.
They waited on his last breath. For years they'd sat, watching, hoping it'd come soon yet every day he clung on, stubborn or unaware.
In the first version of events, Robin Stark passed away when he was twelve. Another couple of years passing by just barely eating, ignored all the while. Most folks would've said he just wasted away, then tossed him into the ground like trash.
Robin put his hand on the wall, sensing the chill of the rock. His fingertips shook not because he was scared, but 'cause his arms were worn out. Just staying upright drained what little strength this form had.
Combat check, his thoughts rolled on their own. Yet strength was weak at best. Still, speed felt sluggish. Even so, stamina dipped dangerously close to zero. Although hand-eye coordination worked for a kid.
Robin shut his eyes, stretching toward a hidden place, his thoughts. Justin's past flickered in. Two decades of war zones, strategies piling up, fighting styles burned into reflexes this body still lacked.
The info sat right in his head. Just like that, he saw each blade move, every battle setup, all the sneaky moves from old street fights before the Starks brought him on.
The weapon's busted, he figured yet the smith still knows the way to shape it anew.
A sound from the hall caught his attention made him look. Steps. More than one kind. Boots thudding, then quicker ones weaving through. He froze.
Robin shuffled toward the door, shaky on his feet, afraid they might buckle. He squinted through the gap the servant hadn't closed fully.
A line of people moving slow. Soldiers wearing Stark colors, their metal suits shiny in the light. Men with counsel roles draped in rich cloth. But right there in the middle one figure stands out, easy to spot even from this angle
Duke Aldric Stark.
Robin gripped the doorway tight. His kid's hands weren't strong enough to dent the wood, still, the urge showed clear.
The Duke seemed changed. Not just younger, he'd only been around thirty-five, nothing like the older noble Justin once followed but something else. His hair shone with a deeper gray, his body sturdier than before. He walked like someone sure of every step, full of quiet strength.
He talked with an advisor, maybe about grain deliveries or trading paths. His tone held that steady control Robin knew well. The kind of cool certainty that once gave the order to kill him.
The Duke looked down the hall while moving through it.
It went straight above Robin's doorway.
No stopping. Yet he didn't blink, no sign he knew. Still nothing showing the boy inside was even there.
Just open area. With furniture sitting around. Not much catches your eye.
The parade kept going. His Highness's words grew quieter along the hall, talking about taxes or something just as dull instead.
Robin froze right by the entrance.
He thought he'd feel mad maybe even furious. Instead, a cold urge for payback lit up inside. Not quite what he imagined.
It hit him as colder and more sharp, somehow. Clearer too, like frost on glass.
The Duke hadn't noticed him at all. For Aldric Stark, Robin wasn't dangerous nor was he awkward or letdown material either. Just irrelevant. An issue bound to fade on its own, thanks to how things go.
Good, Robin figured. Stay clueless. Just keep staring beyond me instead.
Invisibility worked like a tool. Justin figured this out quick not because he planned to, but life taught him; someone from nowhere could shift around easier than showy lords since folks ignored the poor guy till everything went sideways.
Now he wasn't just unseen, he'd faded out. Pushed aside. Erased from mind.
Perfect.
Robin shut the door slow, then looked around at where he was stuck. The space wasn't big, roughly ten by twelve. There's a bed. A table sits near it. He spotted a mirror on one wall. In the far corner, a chamber pot stank, full. Up high, a thin window leaked dim light from outside.
This was where he began just a sick kid in some hidden chamber of a place he'd walked a thousand times.
He'd set up attacks alongside far tougher ones.
Check done, he figured it out. The team's hit bad, though still fixable. He's tucked far behind enemy lines, seeing every move they make, even what's coming next. Best call? Stay low for months. Grow quiet and steady. Use the edge he's got from knowing too much. Hit back once they stop looking.
Robin shuffled to the window just three steps, yet his breath came short and peered outside. There lay Winterfell's outer yard. Soldiers practicing sword drills. Workers hurrying from one hall to another. Life ticking along like any other morning in a big castle.
Out there somewhere, his elder brothers trained. Marcus Stark must've been around twenty by now already showing he's the favored one. Leo, being the middle kid, likely hitting fourteen or fifteen. Each fit, tough, carrying that sturdy family strength without trying.
Each one ended up just watching while Justin died.
For now, Robin told his mind. Six decades off. At this moment, they're kids - no clue you're around.
His strength was fading fast. On his feet this long left him drained. The corners of his sight started to haze over.
Robin staggered toward the bed, plopped down heavy. His breaths were quick, way too quick. Not deep enough.
This body was hanging on by a thread.
The screen blinked in front of him:
[WARNING: HOST BODY MALNOURISHED]
[CURRENT STATUS: 15% OPTIMAL FUNCTION]
[RECOMMENDATION: INCREASE CALORIC INTAKE, BEGIN PHYSICAL CONDITIONING]
"With what?" Robin muttered. "The half-bowl of gruel they give me once a day?"
Robin leaned back on the lumpy bed. Above him, the ceiling showed dark marks from leaks. One by one, he started counting. There were twelve big blotches, then heaps of tiny spots nearby. The place was falling apart, slowly decaying.
Begin where you are, Justin's words rang through his head. Each fight kicks off from the spot you're already at.
What was it that he carried?
A body: damaged yet new. Maybe repairable.
A head full of fight stories of two decades worth, nobody had a clue. While carrying secrets like heavy gear through silence.
Info: knowing exactly what happens over the next six decades.
A system: odd yet seemingly able to give extreme abilities.
Cold determination. Plus a quiet kind of drive. Absolute focus.
Robin pressed his hand to his ribs once more, sensing the weak spark of what used to be his mana core.
His kid's hands balled up tight.
The sun dipped lower in the sky. In a little while, that smug helper would show up with more watery porridge. Next day? Just like this one. Then the one after that - same routine.
A gradual fading, ignored bit by bit.
Unless.
Robin pushed himself upright once more. Pain shot through him, yet he kept moving anyway. He headed toward the dark nook in the room's edge.
Fell down hard, then pushed up from the ground.
His arms buckled right away smack into gritty rock he went.
[PHYSICAL TRAINING INITIATED]
[CALCULATING...]
[1 REPETITION COMPLETED. +0.3 STR]
Robin stayed put, grit on his tongue, limbs shaky.
After that, he hauled himself up - gave it another shot.