Two years had passed. Long enough for days to blur together.
Arin woke before sunrise. The air was cold, the kind that made his breath hang like smoke. He rolled off the thin mat and started moving. Push-ups first, then squats, then sit-ups. No counting. He stopped when his arms shook too much to hold him up. After that, he stretched until the stiffness faded.
When the streets began to stir, he left for work. Some mornings, he carried sacks for merchants. Other times, he scrubbed stone floors until his fingers stung. If he was lucky, he ran errands, less strain, more risk. The gangs liked fast runners, as slow ones didn't last.
The pay was small. Always small. He kept most of it hidden under a loose board in the corner. A jar with coins that looked like nothing but felt like everything.
After work, he ate what he could, bread if he had it, stew if he was lucky. Then he trained again. Lifting stones until his arms burned. Running through alleys until his lungs felt raw. He didn't stop because stopping meant staying weak, and weak didn't survive here.
When his body gave out, his mind kept going.
He pushed through a threadbare curtain and stepped onto cold stone. The room smelled of lamp oil and old glue. A small lamp burned on the counter; moths tapped the glass and fell away. Books weren't arranged; they were bundled with twine, wedged under stools, and stacked on crates. The desk had ink rings and a chipped slate; the keeper's abacus clicked while he counted. People rarely came in. Arin did.
The man behind the desk was old and thin, eyes sharp enough to catch the smallest mistake. At first, he barely acknowledged Arin, just took his coins and tossed a stack of books across the table. But Arin kept coming. Kept paying. Kept reading.
Letters first. Words next. Then the things people in the slums never bothered with: monsters, ranks, talents, history. Knowledge they didn't have time for while scraping to survive.
___________________________
The day before his awakening, the old man leaned back, watching Arin pile books into a wobbly tower.
"You've been here a long time," he said, voice rough. "Most kids don't even come here."
Arin didn't look up. "Most kids don't care."
"They care about food," the man said, voice sharper now, like a whip.
Arin shrugged. "And I care about surviving."
The man grunted, eyeing him for a long moment. "Tomorrow's the day, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Don't screw it up."
"I won't," Arin said, voice flat but steady.
The old man waved a hand, dismissing him, but Arin caught a flicker in his eyes before he turned away. Something like respect. Not pride. Not warmth. Respect.
Night pressed down like a weight. The house was quiet, just as it had been since Anne's death. Her folded clothes still lay in the corner. He never moved them. Couldn't.
Her face had grown harder to recall, but her voice was still vivid in his mind:
Don't beg. Don't bow. Live.
That promise had carried him through hunger, pain, and days that dragged like chains. Tomorrow, it would carry him into something new.
Light crept through the cracked window. Arin's eyelids fluttered open, heavy, reluctant.
The air shivered. A low hum filled the room, crawling under his skin, vibrating through his bones. He froze. The sound wasn't coming from outside; it came from within.
Then it happened.
A screen appeared. Blue. Sharp. Unreal. Floating in the air before him like the world itself had split open, exposing a truth that had always been waiting.
___________________________
Name: Arin
Core Talent: Lord
Rank: Soldier (0%)
Core Skills:
Lord's Eyes – See the talent and potential of others.
Lord's Imprint – Bind subordinates, feeding their growth into yours. Bound allies gain 10% faster overall development and full control over their Core Talent.
Regular Skills: None
___________________________
He stared at it for a long time.
Then a short laugh slipped out. "Lord? In this place?"
The laugh died in his throat.
He let the screen fade. "Lord," he said quietly. "Fine."
If this meant seeing talent, holding people together, surviving, no living… then he would learn it.
He pushed himself to his feet, muscles stiff, eyes sharp. Time to move.
His fingers flexed slowly, testing the weight of it all.
"If this world only respects strength…" he muttered under his breath, voice low, steady. "Then I'll make mine."
The day had come.
And this was only the beginning.