The winter Darian turned eight was the coldest in living memory.
Snow piled against the cottage walls until the windows were half buried. Wind howled through cracks that Theron patched daily with mud and straw. The family huddled by the fire, eating thin stew and watching their breath mist in the air.
Darian didn't mind the cold. He'd survived worse. What he minded was the stillness, the waiting, the days spent trapped inside with nothing to do but think.
Thinking was dangerous. Thinking led to remembering. Remembering led to the cold kind of rage that lived in his chest, the rage he'd been feeding for eight years.
So when the fever took old Marta three houses down, Darian volunteered to help.
"You're too young," Elara said, stirring the pot. "The sickness might spread."
"I'm not going inside. I'll just chop wood for them. Stack it by the door so they don't have to go out."
Elara looked at him. At eight, he was small for his age, wiry and quick, with eyes that made her pause every time she really looked. Those eyes held too much. Saw too much.
"Theron," she said quietly.
Her husband glanced up from his mending. Studied Darian for a long moment. Then nodded.
"Take the small axe. Not the splitting maul."
Darian was out the door before anyone could change their mind.
---
The axe was a joke.
A child's tool, really. Light head, short handle, meant for kindling not serious work. Darian hefted it as he walked through the snow, testing its balance, feeling the wrongness of it in his hands.
He'd carried better. Much better. The axes of his past life had been extensions of his arms, forged by craftsmen who knew their trade. This thing was a toy.
But it would do.
Marta's son, a man named Jaren, was stacking wood when Darian arrived. He looked up, surprised.
"Boy? What are you doing out in this?"
"Brought help." Darian gestured at the axe. "Where's your pile?"
Jaren stared at him. Then, slowly, pointed at the massive stack of unsplit logs nearly buried in snow.
"You're going to split that?"
"No. You're going to split that. I'm going to stack what you finish so you can get inside faster."
Jaren laughed, a short surprised sound. "Fair enough. Get started then."
They worked in silence for hours. Jaren swung a real axe, a proper tool with a heavy head and oiled handle. Darian carried the split wood to the covered porch, stacking it in neat rows, moving with an efficiency that Jaren noticed more than once.
"Done this before?" he asked during a break.
Darian shrugged. "Lots of wood at home."
Jaren nodded, accepting the answer. But his eyes lingered on the boy's movements, the way he never wasted a step, the way he stacked each piece exactly so.
They finished as the sun dropped behind the trees. Jaren's breath came in clouds, his face red from exertion.
"Thanks, boy. You saved me hours."
Darian nodded, already turning to leave.
"Wait." Jaren disappeared inside, returned with a small cloth pouch. "Payment. Fair wages for fair work."
Darian took it. Hefted it. Silver, maybe three coins. A fortune to a farm boy.
"Thank you."
"Thank your mother. She's the one who raised a boy willing to work in weather like this."
Darian walked home through the deepening snow, the pouch tucked inside his shirt. Three silver coins. His first real earnings in this new life. Not much. But a start.
That night, he hid them in a hole beneath his sleeping mat and stared at the ceiling for a long time.
Eight years old. Three silver coins. Level 11 now, after all that wood splitting. He checked his status screen, something he did rarely to avoid frustration.
DARIAN ASHFORD
Level: 11
STR: 18
AGI: 16
VIT: 15
INT: 22
PER: 19
LCK: 8.5
Free Stats Available: 11
He'd been saving his free stats, unsure how to allocate them. In his past life, he'd always dumped everything into strength and vitality like every other warrior. But he was smarter now. He understood the system better.
INT wasn't just for mages. It governed memory, learning speed, tactical thinking. And Darian had centuries of experience to process, strategies to remember, plans to formulate.
He allocated all 11 points to INT without hesitation.
INT: 22 → 33
Better. Much better.
At this rate, he'd be ready to leave by sixteen. Maybe seventeen.
But leaving meant leaving his parents. The thought sat heavy in his chest.
Elara and Theron were good people. Simple farmers who worked from dawn to dusk, who loved each other and loved him, who had no idea the soul sleeping in their son's body was over a century old. They deserved better than a son who couldn't wait to escape.
Darian pushed the thoughts away. He had years yet. Years to grow, to plan, to figure out how to protect them when he finally left.
He closed his eyes and slept.
---
Spring came eventually, as it always did.
The snow melted. The roads became passable. Travelers appeared on the path through the village, merchants and peddlers and the occasional adventurer heading somewhere more interesting than this collection of farms.
Darian watched them all.
He watched how they walked. How they held themselves. How they scanned their surroundings, some alert, some oblivious. He noted the weapons they carried, the armor they wore, the condition of their boots and the calluses on their hands.
Theron noticed him watching.
"Interested in adventuring?"
They were repairing the fence, the same fence Darian had dented with his stick five years ago. Theron had replaced the damaged posts long since, but he still remembered.
Darian considered the question carefully. "Interested in seeing what's out there."
"There's danger out there. Monsters. Bandits. Things that don't care how old you are."
"I know."
Theron hammered a nail. "Your mother worries. Thinks you'll leave the moment you're old enough."
Darian said nothing.
"Will you?"
Another careful pause. "Probably. But not forever. I'd come back."
Theron nodded slowly. Set down his hammer. Looked at his son, really looked, the way he did sometimes when he thought Darian wasn't paying attention.
"You're not like other children. You never were. I don't know why. I don't need to know." He picked up another nail. "But when you go, take care of yourself. And come back sometimes. Your mother will need that."
Darian felt something crack in his chest. A small thing, a hairline fracture in the wall he'd been building for eight years.
"I will," he said.
And meant it.
---
At ten, Darian killed his first monster.
A goblin.
It had been raiding farms on the outskirts, stealing chickens, killing livestock. The village elders talked about sending word to Millbrook, hiring someone to deal with it, but that would take weeks and cost coin no one wanted to spend.
Darian handled it himself.
He tracked it for three days. Found its cave in a hillside two miles from the village. Watched it for another day, learning its habits, its schedule, its weaknesses.
Goblins were stupid. This one was no exception. It came out at dusk, stretched its scrawny limbs, and started toward the nearest farm.
Darian was waiting.
He'd taken Jaren's old hunting knife, sharpened on a stone until it could shave hair. Nothing fancy. Nothing magical. Just steel and edge and a boy who'd killed more things than anyone would believe.
The goblin never heard him coming.
The knife went in just below the ribs, angled up, the way Darian had learned a century ago. The goblin gasped, a wet surprised sound, and crumpled.
Darian knelt beside it, waiting.
[LEVEL UP!]
[Level: 21 → 22]
[Free Stats Gained: 1]
[DEVOUR ACTIVATED]
[Target: Goblin (Level 17)]
[Stats Absorbed:]
- STR +8
- AGI +10
- VIT +6
- LCK +1.4
- ANCIENT BOND: SYNC 5% -
He felt it this time. The stats flowing into him like a river, strengthening his muscles, sharpening his reflexes. A warmth that spread from his chest outward, leaving him buzzing with energy. The gains were massive, far more than a normal kill should provide. Devour didn't just take stats. It took them greedily, efficiently, squeezing every drop from each kill.
And something else. A whisper, barely there, at the edge of his mind.
More.
Darian stood slowly. Looked down at the goblin. At the knife in his hand, wet with dark blood.
His first real kill in this life. Level 17 enemy. He'd gained more from this one goblin than from months of natural growth.
He wiped the knife on the goblin's rags and walked home.
Behind him, the cave waited. Goblin tribes didn't live alone. There would be more. Maybe a dozen. Maybe more than a dozen.
Darian smiled, a thin expression that didn't reach his eyes.
Good.
---
He didn't tell his parents about the goblin. Or the cave. Or his plans.
The next night, he went back.
The cave entrance was dark, barely visible in the moonlight. Darian waited, watching, counting. Goblins were creatures of habit. They'd send out one scout at dusk, maybe two. The rest would sleep until dawn.
He'd killed their scout yesterday. They'd notice eventually, but not yet. Not tonight.
He slipped inside.
The cave smelled of rot and filth and goblin. Darian moved slowly, carefully, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He'd brought a small lantern but didn't light it. Light would warn them. Light would kill him.
His fingers found the wall. Followed it. Steps. Turn. Opening.
Twelve goblins. Sleeping in a pile, tangled together like rats. Their fire had burned to embers, casting just enough glow to see by.
Darian chose his first target carefully. The biggest one. The one that looked strongest.
The knife went in the same way. Ribs. Up. Heart.
[LEVEL UP!]
[Level: 22 → 23]
[Free Stats Gained: 1]
[DEVOUR ACTIVATED]
[Target: Goblin Warrior (Level 23)]
[Stats Absorbed:]
- STR +12
- VIT +10
- AGI +6
- LCK +1.0
- ANCIENT BOND: SYNC 6% -
The warmth again. Stronger this time. His muscles flexed, tightened, grew. He could feel his body changing, strengthening with each kill.
Darian moved to the next.
[LEVEL UP!]
[Level: 23 → 24]
[Free Stats Gained: 1]
[DEVOUR ACTIVATED]
[Target: Goblin (Level 18)]
[STR +7, AGI +8, VIT +5, LCK +1.1]
And the next.
[LEVEL UP!]
[Level: 24 → 25]
[Free Stats Gained: 1]
[DEVOUR ACTIVATED]
[Target: Goblin Shaman (Level 26)]
[INT +15, PER +8, VIT +4, LCK +1.3]
Darian paused. INT? He could steal INT from spellcasters. That changed everything.
By the time the last goblin woke, Darian had killed eight. The remaining four scrambled, screaming, reaching for weapons. Darian met them in the dark, knife flashing, moving with speed he hadn't possessed an hour ago.
The ninth fell.
The tenth.
The eleventh.
The twelfth ran for the entrance. Darian caught it at the mouth of the cave, drove the knife into its spine, watched it crumple into the snow.
Silence.
Darian stood in the cave entrance, breathing hard, covered in black goblin blood. The moon was high. The night was cold. His hands shook slightly, not from fear, from the aftermath of violence.
He checked his status.
DARIAN ASHFORD
Level: 34
STR: 187
AGI: 169
VIT: 178
INT: 94
PER: 112
LCK: 21.8
Free Stats Available: 12
TALENT: DEVOUR (X-RANK)
ANCIENT BOND: SYNC 11%
SKILLS: Stealth (Intermediate), Knife Fighting (Intermediate), Tracking (Novice)
Level 34. In one night, he'd gained thirteen levels and massive stats. A normal level 34 adventurer would have stats around 55. His strength was 187, more than triple. His agility 169, triple. His vitality 178, triple.
His INT was already 94, higher than most mages twenty levels above him.
He was level 34 with stats closer to a level 200 warrior.
Devour wasn't just giving him stats. It was giving him massive gains from every kill. The goblin shaman alone had given him 15 INT. A single kill worth months of normal training.
Darian looked at the bodies behind him. At the blood on his hands. At the cold white snow stretching toward home.
He was ten years old.
And he'd never go back to being average.
---
He buried the goblins in the cave and collapsed the entrance with rocks. It took three days. When he finished, no one would ever know they'd been there.
The village noticed the raids stopped. They thanked whatever gods they didn't believe in and went back to their lives.
Darian went back to his.
But at night, when his parents slept, he practiced. Knife work. Stalking. Breathing control. The skills he'd built over 107 years, now being rebuilt in a body that finally had potential.
And every night, before sleep, he checked his status and allocated his free stats. He spread them carefully now, boosting everything evenly. A warrior with no weaknesses.
---
The years passed in a blur of hunting and training.
At eleven, he found a wolf pack terrorizing local shepherds. Twelve wolves, levels 25 to 40. He killed them all in a single night.
[Level: 41]
[STR: 312, AGI: 298, VIT: 305, INT: 156, PER: 201, LCK: 29.4]
At twelve, he discovered a hidden cave system filled with corrupted bats. Over a hundred of them, levels 15 to 30. It took a week to clear them all. The Devour notifications blurred together.
[Level: 58]
[STR: 512, AGI: 487, VIT: 498, INT: 267, PER: 341, LCK: 38.7]
At thirteen, he tracked a young wyvern that had been nesting in the hills. Level 87. It was the toughest fight of his new life. He almost died three times. But in the end, his axe found its throat.
[LEVEL UP! x3]
[Level: 67]
[DEVOUR ACTIVATED]
[Target: Young Wyvern (Level 87)]
[STR +45, AGI +38, VIT +42, PER +27, LCK +5.2]
[Ancient Bond: SYNC 15%]
[New Skill Unlocked: Draconic Resistance]
He sat beside the massive corpse, breathing hard, covered in wounds that were already healing thanks to his massive vitality.
[Level: 71]
[STR: 687, AGI: 623, VIT: 654, INT: 341, PER: 456, LCK: 51.3]
At fourteen, he found the bandit camp. Thirty seven bandits, levels ranging from 30 to 70. He watched them for a week, learning their routines, their weaknesses, their rotations.
Then he killed them all in a single night.
[Level: 89]
[STR: 1,023, AGI: 956, VIT: 987, INT: 523, PER: 678, LCK: 67.8]
At fifteen, he discovered the forgotten dungeon. Seven floors of corrupted beasts, each floor harder than the last. He spent three months inside, emerging thinner, harder, with eyes that made even seasoned adventurers look away.
[Level: 124]
[STR: 1,876, AGI: 1,654, VIT: 1,723, INT: 987, PER: 1,234, LCK: 98.4]
[ANCIENT BOND: SYNC 21%]
---
At sixteen, he bought his parents a new house.
Not a mansion, nothing that would draw attention, but bigger than the old cottage. Better roof. Real glass in the windows. A proper kitchen with a stone hearth. Enough land that Theron could farm without killing his back.
Theron cried when he saw it. Elara hugged Darian so tight he thought his ribs might crack, though with his current vitality, that was impossible.
"You didn't have to," she whispered.
"Yes I did. You've given me everything. This is just a small thing."
"It's not small." She pulled back, tears streaming down her face. "It's not small at all."
That night, they had dinner in their new home. Theron kept touching the walls, the windows, the solid wooden table like he couldn't believe they were real.
"Where did you get this kind of coin?" he asked finally.
Darian had his answer ready. "Dungeon diving. There's a lot of valuable materials down there if you know what to look for."
Theron nodded slowly. He didn't ask more. Maybe he didn't want to know.
---
At seventeen, he started asking questions. Travelers. Merchants. Anyone who passed through. He learned about the Adventurer's Guild in Millbrook. About the regional academy in the city of Stonebridge. About the requirements for joining, the tests, the opportunities.
He also learned about Lady Vance.
Her parties had become legendary. The wine flowed like water. The nobility fought for invitations. Her husband, the demon lord, was rarely seen but always spoken of in whispers. Some said he was ancient. Some said he was gathering power for something. No one knew what.
Darian listened. Remembered. Waited.
But he also helped his father with the new farm. Sat with his mother while she knitted by the fire. Ate dinner with them every night, listening to Theron's quiet observations about the weather and the crops and the village gossip.
He was a son first. Everything else second.
---
That winter, when Darian was seventeen, his mother got sick.
It wasn't dramatic. Just a cough that wouldn't go away, a fever that came and went, a weakness that lingered in her bones. The village healer did what she could, but she was just a healer, not a mage. There were limits.
Darian sat by Elara's bed for three weeks.
He brought her soup. Changed her bedding. Held her hand when the fever spiked and she didn't know where she was. His vitality, now over 2,000, meant he didn't need sleep. His INT, pushing 1,500, meant he remembered every detail the healer mentioned, every remedy, every sign to watch for.
Theron did the same, sitting on the other side, his weathered face carved with worry. He was only level 87, a lifetime of farming behind him. He tired easily, slept in fits. Darian watched over both of them.
On the twentieth night, Elara's fever broke.
She woke in the early morning, weak but clear eyed, and found them there. Darian, alert and watching. Theron, asleep in his chair, head tilted back.
She looked at them for a long time. Her husband. Her son. The two people who had kept her alive.
Then she smiled and closed her eyes and slept.
---
When Darian turned eighteen, Elara insisted on a celebration.
It wasn't much. A special dinner. A cake she'd spent all day making. A small wrapped package that turned out to be a warm wool coat she'd knitted herself over the past year.
"I know you'll be leaving soon," she said, her eyes bright. "I wanted you to have something to remember us by."
Darian held the coat like it was made of gold. With his stats, he didn't need a coat. Cold meant nothing to him anymore. But this... this was love, woven into every stitch.
"I don't need a coat to remember you, mother."
"Take it anyway."
He did.
After dinner, they sat by the fire, the three of them. Theron puffed on a pipe he only used on special occasions. Elara knitted something new, probably for a neighbor. Darian stared into the flames.
"I've decided," he said quietly. "Millbrook first. The Adventurer's Guild. If I do well, I can transfer to Stonebridge later. Maybe the academy."
Theron nodded slowly. "When?"
"Next week. The roads are clear now."
Elara's needles paused. Then continued. Her voice was steady when she spoke.
"Will you write?"
"Every chance I get."
"And visit?"
"Whenever I can. I promise."
She set down her knitting and crossed to him. Pulled him into a hug, fierce and warm.
"You're the best thing that ever happened to us, Darian. Don't ever forget that."
He hugged her back, his eyes burning.
"I won't."
---
Before bed, Darian checked his status one last time before leaving home.
DARIAN ASHFORD
Level: 157
STR: 3,847
AGI: 3,521
VIT: 3,698
INT: 2,834
PER: 3,112
LCK: 187.6
Free Stats Available: 0
CLASS: None (Eligible for class selection)
TALENT: DEVOUR (X-RANK)
ANCIENT BOND: SYNC 28%
SKILLS:
- Stealth (Master)
- Axe Proficiency (Master)
- Knife Fighting (Master)
- Tracking (Master)
- Survival (Master)
- Tactical Analysis (Advanced)
- Monster Lore (Advanced)
- Draconic Resistance (Passive)
- Night Vision (Passive)
- Poison Resistance (Passive)
A normal level 150 warrior had stats around 250. He had more than fifteen times that in every physical category. His INT was higher than most archmages. His PER meant he could spot a fly from a mile away.
He was level 157 with the combat effectiveness of a level 600 adventurer.
And he hadn't even chosen a class yet.
Darian closed the screen and slept.
---
He left a week later.
His pack held supplies, a waterskin, the coat his mother made. His axe hung at his hip, a legendary weapon now, forged by a dwarf in Millbrook who'd wept at the quality of materials Darian provided. His coin pouch held enough to buy a small estate, saved carefully over years of hunting.
At the edge of the village, he stopped and looked back.
His parents stood in front of their new house, arms around each other, watching him go. His mother was crying. His father's jaw was tight.
Darian raised one hand. Held it there for a long moment.
Then he turned and walked toward the road.
The road to Millbrook.
The road to the guild.
The road to everything that came next.
But not away from them. Never away from them. They were his home now, as much as any place had ever been.
He would come back. He meant that promise with every fiber of his being.
And when he did, he'd be strong enough to protect them from anything.