[Status Window]
Na: Oliver Shaw
Class: Linguist (F-Rank)
Level: 17
HP: 203 / 203
MP: 91 / 91
Strength: 34
Endurance: 39
Agility: 33
Intelligence: 45
Skills:
Language Comprehension – Understand and speak any language.
Isolde’s eyes scanned the floating window. For a long second, her gaze didn’t move. Then suddenly, she snapped her head toward him.
"What... the actual hell?" Her voice was sharp, louder than before.
Oliver frowned. "What’s the matter?"
BAM!
A sharp smack landed on his head, making him stumble back.
"Y-you dumbass!" Isolde shouted, her pale face flushing with irritation. "All this ti you’ve been whining about having so ’trash’ class—I even started to pity you, , an Umbral Queen pitying a human brat! But you bastard... you’re the most broken character of all ti!"
Oliver rubbed his head, glaring. "What the hell are you talking about? Broken? Where? Look at my stats! Even after suffering in this dungeon for god knows how long, I’m only level seventeen. My mana is pathetic—I can barely manage a few weak spells before drying up. My strength is diocre at best. I survived only because I figured out the trap runes and lured monsters into them. If not for that, I’d be long dead. That’s not broken—that’s desperation!"
Another BAM! landed on his skull.
"Ow! What the hell was that for?" Oliver hissed.
"For being blind!" Isolde barked. "You idiot, you’re looking at everything wrong. Do you even know what kind of class you have? Don’t focus on the rank—F, S, SS, all that crap. Ranks are based on how much mana you have, not the practicality of the class itself. And your class..." Her finger jabbed toward the floating golden letters. "It’s a unique class. Don’t you see it glowing? Only unique classes appear in golden script."
Oliver blinked. "...Wait, what? No one told that."
"Of course they didn’t!" she snapped. "Do you think the gods or the royals want soone like you to realize what you are?"
"But even if that’s true," Oliver muttered stubbornly, "it’s still just a class that lets understand languages. Big deal. I can talk to people, I can read so gibberish, so what? It’s not like it makes stronger. Where’s the surprise in that?"
Isolde froze, then sighed so hard it echoed off the cavern walls. She rubbed her temples with both hands like she was trying to physically push patience into herself.
"Are you for real right now, boy? Are you really this dumb, or just pretending? Because if you’re pretending, quit it right now, you’re irritating ."
Oliver spread his hands helplessly. "I really don’t get what you’re saying!"
Another long sigh. Isolde dragged her clawed hand down her face. "Alright, let spoon-feed it to you. Think. You’ve been living in this world for a while now, haven’t you? You must’ve picked up how things work at the palace before you were dumped in this hellhole."
Oliver hesitated, then nodded slowly.
"So tell , boy. How many people can understand rune language like you?"
"...Not many," Oliver admitted.
"Not many?" Isolde let out a short, sharp laugh. "Try none. Even before I was sealed, runes were already a mystery to most races. Only my people—the Umbrals—had true affinity with them. And we were wiped out. Which ans rune knowledge should be near-extinct by now. And yet here you are, an outsider brat, strolling into a ruin and casually reading the runes."
Oliver’s eyes flickered, his mind racing. He thought back to the tis he had understood patterns no one else could. The way symbols shifted and clicked into place in his head. How his survival depended on that understanding.
He swallowed. "...So what you’re saying is, my class makes a... replacent for the Umbrals?"
Isolde’s eyes glead. "Now you’re catching on."
Oliver frowned. "But still, what’s the point if I have no real strength? Runes are just... external tools. Traps, barriers, locks. They don’t give muscle. They don’t give mana."
Her eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a sharp smile. "You really are slow, aren’t you? Didn’t I already explain it? I created runes that could modify the body itself. Strength, endurance, mana flow—everything. Why worry about your pathetic little numbers? Why care about asly concerns like mana shortage?"
Oliver’s heart skipped. "...Modify the body...?"
Isolde leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "Yes. I could carve a single Siphon Rune onto your heart, and you’d have an endless supply of mana. Carve others on your limbs, your blood, your bones... and your strength would surpass any so-called hero."
Oliver’s breath hitched. Endless mana? Strength beyond the chosen heroes?
Her smile widened, fangs glinting faintly in the dim glow of runes. "And you—of all people—are the only one alive who can truly understand my runes. Do you see it now, boy? You aren’t trash. You’re the key."
Isolde leaned closer, her smile widening. Her eyes glowed faintly as she began to list them, her voice smooth like a spider spinning its web.
"Siphon Rune," she whispered. "Carved on your heart—it draws in ambient mana, endlessly feeding your core. No more pitiful limits, no more gasping after a few weak spells. You would breathe mana as naturally as air."
Oliver’s pulse quickened. He could imagine it—casting without worry, never choking on exhaustion.
"And that’s just the beginning," she continued, her tone almost teasing. "The Reservoir Rune—you engrave it on your stomach, your veins, your blood. It stores the mana you gather, like a battery overflowing with energy. Imagine having more mana than a dozen archmages combined, all stored within you."
Oliver’s throat went dry.
"The Titan Rune," Isolde said, her claw tracing a line through the air as if sketching on his skin. "Inscribed on your bones, muscles, and skin. Your flesh would harden, your fra would be reforged. Blades would shatter against you, arrows would bounce harmlessly, and you would crush steel with your bare hands."
Oliver’s body tensed involuntarily. A shiver ran down his spine.
"And then, the jewel of them all—the Omnirune." Her voice dropped lower, almost reverent. "An All-Affinity Rune. It would let your mana adapt to every elent. Fire, water, wind, lightning, shadow, light... you would wield them all as naturally as breathing."
She leaned back with a smirk, watching his stunned expression. "Tell , Oliver. Do you still think your class is trash?"
For a long mont, he was silent. His mind was spinning with images—his enemies burning, crumbling, falling before him, while he stood untouchable, endless power coursing through his veins. For the first ti since he ca to this world, he felt the true weight of temptation.
Then he shook his head violently, snapping himself out of it.
"You lunatic," Oliver growled, his voice rough. "You’re talking like those things are fucking possible. Carving runes into my heart? My bones? Are you out of your damn mind?"
Isolde blinked, caught off guard by his outburst.
"Hah," Oliver barked bitterly. "You think I’ll survive you cutting open my chest and scribbling on my organs? Hell, I’d be dead long before I gained the power you’re drooling about. I’m not so half-immortal monster like you Umbrals. I can’t just regenerate in the dark after being ripped apart. I’m human. Human. You cut open, I bleed out and die."
Isolde tilted her head, watching him carefully. Instead of getting angry, she gave a soft chuckle, her expression almost... amused.
"You’re right," she said. "You are human. Fragile, soft, easy to break. But that’s exactly why you’re perfect for this. A human vessel doesn’t need to regenerate—it just needs to endure long enough for the runes to take root. And once they do, you won’t be just human anymore."
Oliver glared at her, breathing heavily, forcing himself not to picture it again.
"I’d rather be fragile than a corpse," he snapped. "Save your mad experints for soone else."
"Hey, what are you so worried about?" Isolde suddenly asked, her smile twisting into sothing mischievous. "I was, in a sense... a scientist back then. A rune scientist."
Oliver frowned. "And what exactly does that an?"
Her grin widened, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Do you know what scientists like doing more than anything?"
"...What?" he asked warily.
"Human experint." She said it in an evil tone, each word heavy and deliberate.
A chill ran up Oliver’s spine, and his whole body shivered before he even realized it. The way she said it wasn’t a joke—it was a confession. A mory.
Seeing his reaction, Isolde chuckled, covering her mouth with a clawed hand like she was enjoying his discomfort. "Oh, don’t worry, master," she purred. "I won’t do anything that could harm you in any way. I have taken you as my master, after all."
That didn’t calm Oliver down. Not even a little. If anything, the thought of being her "master" only made the unease sink deeper into his stomach.
"Through countless experints," she continued, her voice smooth and assured, "I discovered many successful—and painless—ways to accomplish rune carving on humans. My early test subjects... well, not all of them survived. But the perfected thods? They work. And with those, I could take even soone as fragile as you and make you into sothing no one could dare oppose."
She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "So believe , Oliver. I can do it. I can make you the most powerful person alive. The ones you envy now—the hero, the knights, the nobles—they won’t even be able to see your back. They will only look up to you... from far below."
Oliver’s hands curled into fists. His breathing quickened. Her words hooked into his chest like barbed wire, tugging at his deepest desires—the humiliation he had suffered, the rage boiling in him, the hunger to stand above them all.
And yet, at the sa ti, the image of her scalpel-like claws cutting into his flesh made his stomach twist.
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