[Congratulations. You have obtained an SSS-tier talent: Devil's Touch]
Eryon froze.
For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. His chest tightened, his heartbeat pounding so loudly it drowned out the noise around him. His eyes remained fixed on the words floating before him, as if looking away might cause them to vanish.
An SSS-tier talent.
The highest rank. The rarest.
His first reaction was not joy.
It was disbelief.
Something like this was never supposed to happen.
Unless Devil's Touch did not belong to Eryon Cain.
Unless it belonged to him.
Slowly, his breathing steadied.
He was not stronger.
He was not safer.
But he was no longer empty-handed.
---
[SSS-Tier Talent: Devil's Touch]
[Type: Active]
[Description: Allows the user to harvest the existential essence left behind by a target whose existence has been personally faced, defeated, broken, or overwritten.]
[Existential essence is the fundamental imprint that defines a being, object, or phenomenon.]
[Harvested essence may manifest as raw energy, attributes, fragmented memories, residual effects, or incomplete fragments of the laws that shaped the target.]
Eryon's heartbeat surged again. Not with fear, but with a rush so sharp it nearly slipped past his control.
SSS-tier.
Devil's Touch.
This was not a cheap ability that copied skills or siphoned strength. This was something deeper. Something that reached past form and function, straight into what made an existence what it was.
Strength.
Memories.
Even intangible things like courage or hatred.
Anything that existed could be taken, claimed, and turned into something his own.
Eryon exhaled slowly, forcing his expression to remain neutral. His chest churned like a storm ready to break, but storms attracted attention, and attention invited danger.
He lowered his gaze, pretending to focus on the damp earth beneath his feet.
This was not the moment to stand out.
---
Around him, the clearing erupted.
Cheers, laughter, curses, and gasps collided in a chaotic frenzy. People shouted their talents like lottery winners, flaunting their luck as if this were a celebration instead of the opening act of survival.
"I got D-tier Weapon Mastery! I can use everything, bro!"
"Double Physical Strength, E-tier. Not bad at all!"
"Sharp Fists, E-class. I'll take it."
"Fire Control, D-tier! I'm basically a firebender!"
"…F-tier. Homecook. Cooking. What the hell is this?"
"Sprinting, F-tier. Just running fast. Seriously?"
Talents had become currency in less than a minute. Status. Bloodline. Worth. An algorithm no one understood had rewritten the hierarchy of humanity, and people were drunk on fortune, whether good or bad.
Eryon watched silently.
What he saw was not joy. It was recklessness.
People exposing their abilities to strangers. People forgetting that wherever humans gathered, predators followed.
He knew better.
The tallest head was always the first to fall.
Predators did not waste time on the weak. They went for the strong, tearing them down before their claws dulled. And predators were not always monsters. Sometimes they wore human faces and smiled too easily.
A tap landed on his shoulder.
Eryon stiffened and turned instantly, instincts flaring.
A young man stood there. Around his age. Clean-cut. Calm expression. Hands raised, palms open.
"Whoa, chill. I'm not a threat, man," the stranger said easily. "Just saying hi. Thought maybe we could watch each other's backs."
Eryon's gaze lingered on him, dissecting posture, tone, microexpressions. Only after a moment did he reply, flat as stone:
"You are unusually calm for someone who just got dropped into another world," he said flatly.
The man chuckled. "Heh, maybe. But if this is a game world... I'm not trying to be the character who dies first."
"Usually the overly friendly one dies second," Eryon replied.
The man laughed, clearly unbothered.
"Fair enough. My name's Vallen. Vallen Marek."
Eryon paused.
The name didn't ring a bell. Not from the original timeline, not from any major event he could recall. And that unsettled him more than it should have. There were gaps in his memory, entire stretches of the story that felt blurred, half-remembered.
Still, he answered honestly.
"Eryon."
"Huh. Cool name," Vallen said. "Alright, Eryon. You've probably noticed, people here are going to split into two types. The ones who panic… and the ones who try to make something out of the chaos. Which one do you plan to be?"
Eryon arched a brow. "We? Are you asking me to form an alliance?"
"More like... feel things out first," said Vallen. "But if we click, why not?"
"And you think I'd agree?"
"Hey, that weird system said there'd be monsters. No harm in having someone to watch your back."
"I prefer being alone."
Vallen shrugged. "Fair enough. Worth a shot." He tilted his head. "So, what talent did you get?"
Eryon hesitated for just a fraction of a second. Then he answered smoothly.
"E-tier. Latency."
Vallen nodded, unfazed. "E-tier, huh? Pretty common. At least it won't get you singled out."
He raised his right hand and clenched it.
Before Eryon's eyes, Vallen's skin hardened and transformed into polished silver metal, gleaming in the firelight.
"I'm D-tier myself. Iron Fist."
Fantasy had torn itself free of fiction.
Vallen released his hand and smiled. "See you around."
He walked off, already drawing attention without trying.
Eryon watched his back, silent. Men like Vallen, friendly, confident, magnetic, would gather flocks without even trying.
But that wasn't the path Eryon chose.
He turned, weaving through the throng. Around him, the boasting continued. A D-tier fire user was already holding court, flames dancing in his palm, girls fawning at his side.
Then the sky shimmered. Another hologram blinked into existence.
[1000 individuals in Village 1134 have awakened their talents. Congratulations.]
The text dissolved, leaving behind groans and curses. Especially from the F-tiers, who spat their frustration into the night air.
But that, too, was human nature. Fortune never feels fair to those it abandons. Satisfaction has always been the privilege of the favored.
Curiosity tugged at Eryon. He flicked open the public chat interface. The feed scrolled endlessly, messages flashing by:
[...damn, someone just awakened an SS-tier skill. What was his name again?]
[Victor, they said. Magnetic Manipulation. Dude's basically Magneto. Is he gonna form the X-Men or what?]
[Fuck, how can someone be that lucky? I also saw someone with an S-tier. Solar Flame. And me? Fucking E-tier!]
[I wonder if this system's karma-based? Like, sinners get bad talents? And vice versa?]
[System said it's purely random]
[But still…]
Names were already circulating. Victor the Magnet Manipulator. The wielder of Solar Flame. Others, too. Legends in the making.
But none of them knew. None could even imagine. Somewhere in the crowd stood an unremarkable man named Eryon Cain, quiet, expressionless, who had drawn an SSS-tier.
And he intended to keep it that way.
The air rippled again. Another announcement.
[BEGINNER TRIAL STARTING SOON. CHOOSE YOUR WEAPON.]
Options unfolded before everyone.
[Sword] [Dagger] [Spear] [Hammer] [Bow]
The crowd exploded in fresh chaos. Shouts. Debates. Scrambling hands.
Eryon thought fast. He had never trained with a sword. Daggers were too close, too messy. Hammers demanded brute force. Bows, distance, but limited.
What he needed was balance. Reach for survival. Precision for killing blows. A weapon he could pair with his hidden talent, his ability to strip essence from prey.
His gaze locked. [Spear]
He tapped.
Golden light cascaded down like judgment, coalescing into steel. A spear two meters long slammed into the earth, blade gleaming sharp and merciless.
He wrapped his fingers around it. Cold. Solid. Real.
Around him, most clutched swords or daggers. Few had chosen as he had. Fewer still understood the path they had set for themselves.
Then the final blow fell.
[WITHIN 7 DAYS, REACH LEVEL 10. THOSE WHO FAIL WILL BE TERMINATED AUTOMATICALLY]
The clearing froze. Breath caught. Silence hung heavier than the night.
[YOU CAN GAIN LEVELS BY KILLING MONSTERS, BEASTS, OR MAGICAL ENTITIES TO OBTAIN XP AND ITEM DROPS]
[YOU MAY NOW LEAVE THE BEGINNER VILLAGE. RETURN ANYTIME YOU WISH]
[GOOD LUCK]
And with those words, the firelight no longer felt safe. The village no longer felt sheltering.
The real game, the cruel game, had begun.