Two years passed.
Not cleanly. Not neatly. They stacked on top of each other until days stopped feeling separate at all.
Arin woke before sunrise.
The cold bit immediately, sharp enough to chase sleep from his bones. He rolled off the thin mat and hit the floor. Push-ups first. No counting. Counting made it feel finite, and weakness didn't care about numbers. He stopped when his arms shook too badly to hold him. Squats came next. Then sit-ups, breath burning, muscles screaming.
Only when the stiffness faded did he stop.
When the streets began to stir, he went to work.
Some days it was hauling sacks for merchants, rough burlap grinding into his shoulders. Other days, it was scrubbing stone floors until his fingers went numb, then burning when the blood came back. If he was lucky, he ran errands. Less strain. More danger.
The gangs liked runners.
Slow ones didn't last.
The pay was always small. He hid most of it beneath a loose board in the corner of his room — a chipped jar filled with copper coins. It looked pathetic. It felt like survival.
After work, he ate what he could. Stale bread most days. Thin stew when luck smiled. Then he trained again.
Lifting stones until his arms refused to obey. Running alleys until his lungs felt raw and burned. He didn't stop when it hurt.
Stopping meant staying weak.
And weak didn't survive.
___________________________
When his body finally gave out, his mind didn't.
He pushed through the threadbare curtain and stepped into the library.
Cold stone. Lamp oil. Old glue. A single lamp burned on the counter, moths tapping against the glass until they dropped. Books were everywhere — bundled with twine, wedged under stools, stacked on crates like they'd been forgotten mid-thought.
The old man sat behind the desk, abacus clicking softly as he counted.
People rarely came here.
Arin always did.
At first, the man barely acknowledged him. Took his coins. Tossed books across the table. Corrected mistakes with sharp words and sharper looks.
Arin kept coming anyway.
Letters. Words. Sentences. Then, things no one in the slums bothered learning — monsters, talents, ranks, history. Knowledge people didn't have time for when survival ate every hour.
The day before his awakening, the old man leaned back and watched Arin stack books into a crooked tower.
"You've been here a while," he said.
"I know."
"Most kids don't bother."
"Most kids don't think past tomorrow."
The man studied him. "And you?"
"I do."
Silence stretched.
"Tomorrow," the man said.
"I know."
"Talents don't care how hard you worked."
Arin nodded. "Neither do I."
The man waved him off, already turning back to his abacus. But Arin saw it — that brief pause before the beads moved again.
Respect.
___________________________
Night pressed down heavy and quiet.
The room hadn't changed since Anne died. Her folded clothes still sat in the corner. He never touched them. Moving them felt too close to admitting she wasn't coming back.
Her face was harder to remember now.
Her voice wasn't.
Don't beg.
Don't bow.
She hadn't told him how to live.
Only that stopping wasn't allowed.
Tomorrow would decide what that meant.
___________________________
Light crept through the cracked window.
Arin's eyes opened slowly.
Then the air changed.
A low hum filled the room, vibrating through his bones, crawling under his skin. He froze. This wasn't outside. This wasn't imagination.
It was inside him.
The world split.
A screen appeared — blue, sharp, unreal — floating in the air before him like 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.
"Lord…"
The word felt wrong in his mouth. Too big. Too dangerous.
He let out a slow breath.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Guess I'll learn what that costs."
The screen faded.
Arin stood, muscles stiff, hands flexing slowly.
"So that's how it is," he muttered.
His fingers curled into fists.
"Then I don't get to stay weak."
The day had come.
And this was only the beginning.