[New Bloodline Acquired: Blood of the First Sage]
[Description: In the era of chaos, twelve entities ruled. Eight betrayed, four remained loyal. When the world sank into darkness, a glimr of death's light rose]
[Effects:
10% resistance and affinity toward dark magic
Enhanced natural talent in cultivation and combat techniques
Increased understanding of magic and science]
Ronan froze in place, eyes widening in disbelief.
A glowing hologram hovered before his eyes, yet the world around him fell deathly silent. His heartbeat slowed, as if his body was trying to catch up with what he had just read.
Not a skill.
Not an ability.
But—a bloodline!
"Fuck ," he muttered, gripping his head.
Bloodlines didn't just appear out of nowhere. In most cases, they were inherited from noble families or ancient clans. But him? He had stumbled upon one by accident!
He touched his chest—his heart was pounding like a war drum.
"Can it be upgraded?" he asked without thinking.
[Yes]
His eyes narrowed. Where there had been doubt, now there was fire.
"How much for the next level?"
[1000 Skill Points]
Ronan gave a slow nod. A thousand points. Not cheap, but not outrageous either—especially compared to the cost of unique skill upgrades. And this one granted direct improvents to talent and understanding—two things you couldn't just buy or learn overnight.
His mind raced, mapping out the possibilities. If one bloodline could be obtained... did that an there were more? Was the system truly opening a path to power that even top-tier awakeners couldn't imagine?
A smile curled on his lips—quiet, but aningful. Satisfaction he couldn't hide.
Then suddenly, he laughed.
A loud, unrestrained laugh, like soone who just won the lottery after a lifeti of being stomped by fate. A few passersby turned to look, frowning, then kept walking.
Maybe they thought he was crazy.
Maybe he was.
But Ronan didn't care.
This world only respected one thing: power. And for the first ti, he felt like he truly held the key to it.
"Looks like I'm finally on the damn map," he said with a grin.
"God really wants to see what I'll do with this."
---
It was now 9:45 a.m., and as usual, the House of Wisdom was alive. Not just crowded—the place moved like a living organism, its bustling noise echoing from the first floor to the sixth.
Ronan stepped back into the building. Veronica had already explained everything: floors one through three were the core for all basic awakener needs—from item exchange and weapon vendors to skill scrolls neatly arranged on transparent racks with holographic labels. A marketplace that sold not just goods, but opportunities.
But that wasn't his goal today.
The fourth floor—where the world began to bare its fangs.
As soon as the elevator doors opened, the sound of cheering washed over him. Loud, energetic—but not the chatter of casual shoppers. This wasn't the laid-back buzz of the lower floors filled with transactions and social banter.
This was the sound of people watching power.
The fourth floor was wider. Its ceiling arched higher, and the walls were lined with impact-absorbing tal panels. Bright white lights from overhead fixtures spotlighted the training zones like a stage.
Ronan walked slowly, his gaze sweeping across the room.
Various zones were neatly divided. A small dueling arena buzzed with people watching a one-on-one match. In another corner stood rows of training equipnt: iron-plated wooden dummies, magic sensors, and AI-based combat simulators.
But his attention was soon drawn to the most crowded corner of the room.
Three massive machines stood there—towering two ters high, made of sleek black-bronze alloy, gleaming under the lights. In the center of each, a round target the size of a human torso jutted out—resembling a punching pad, but tougher and heavier.
Above them, a digital screen flashed brightly. Big numbers popped up every ti soone struck the target.
[956 force units]
[882 force units]
[10129 force units]
The numbers kept shifting, followed by cheers or groans from the crowd.
"10129! Damn, that guy's strong!"
"Who is he?!"
"Think he's from House Sorven..."
"Not bad."
Ronan narrowed his eyes.
Strength Gauge Unit—SGU, that's what they called the machine. Technically, it asured the explosive force of a strike in a specialized unit developed by the association. But to awakeners, those numbers were the purest form of physical power—or more accurately, a test of pride.
Every punch had a number. Every number ant status.
It wasn't just about muscle. It was about technique, aura flow, and total body synchronization.
Ronan moved closer, slipping through a crowd that was half serious, half playful—like spectators at an underground boxing ring.
His eyes shifted to a display high above, listing the top 10 ranked nas.
[Rank 1: Isaac Velmont – 29999 force units]
[Rank 2: Rudy Westmore – 27822 force units]
[Rank 3: Miguel Prado – 27113 force units]
[...]
[Rank 10: Doakes Morgan – 24559 force units]
Ronan felt a rush of adrenaline, the corner of his mouth curling up unconsciously. How satisfying would it be to see his na up there? Those ten were obviously top-tier awakeners—Class A, maybe even S.
"Sooner or later," he thought, then turned his focus back to the Strength Gauge Unit.
At that mont, a man stepped forward with almost obnoxious confidence. Towering physique, dark skin gleaming with sweat, bare-chested and proudly showing muscles carved from years of hard training.
He swept his gaze over the crowd like challenging the world to watch. He raised a hand and pointed at the leaderboard with a wide grin.
"I'm kicking one of those nas out of the top 10! Rember my face, hahaha!"
So people cheered—whether because they believed in him or just wanted to see a good failure was unclear. But most looked like they were hoping for the latter. That cocky swagger was a bit too much to ignore.
Ronan just watched in silence, arms crossed.
"You think he's all bark and no bite?"
A voice slipped into the chaos, calm and flat—like it was tossed into the air without intent.
Ronan instinctively turned left.
A man stood beside him, about his height—looked twice his age, unremarkably dressed, quiet. He didn't seem like part of the crowd, but he didn't feel like an outsider either.
Ronan furrowed his brows. "You talking to ?"
The man gave a small nod, eyes still fixed on the muscleman by the machine.
"Yes. And what do you think?"
Ronan didn't answer imdiately.
His gaze drifted forward again, back to the man under the spotlight. The muscle-bound showman. All flash and noise.
A thud rumbled across the floor. The man bent his knees slightly, stabilizing his posture. Back muscles tightened, right arm pulled back like a loaded slingshot. A split-second later, the punch lashed out—fast, clean, packed with force.
BAM!
A tallic echo rang through the room. The digital display lit up brightly, and the numbers appeared:
[24998]
"HAHAHAHA! KICK THAT MOTHERFUCKER OUT AND PUT MY NA IN—MATT WILLIG! HAHAHA!"
His voice thundered like a blast wave, shaking the air. Cheers erupted instantly, raw and deafening. A ripple moved through the crowd as the leaderboard updated—Doakes Morgan disappeared, replaced by a new na in bold: Matt Willig.
"Shit, he wasn't bluffing!"
"Cocky as hell, but damn—he's the real deal!"
"Who the hell even is that guy?!"
The crowd buzzed with disbelief and curiosity, but Ronan said nothing. The man standing beside him only smiled—subtle, almost amused.
"You expected sothing cliche, didn't you?" the man said, his voice calm beneath the chaos. "The classic fool: big muscles, big mouth, speaking faster than he thinks... destined for a fall."
Ronan glanced at him, then looked back at the screen: [24998]. That wasn't a joke.
The man's smile deepened, as if reading Ronan's silence.
"In infinite possibilities," he continued, "we get used to expecting the world to follow patterns. But reality... it's sotis like a dice that refuses to land on the side we hope for."
He gave a faint smile. "Even a storm can be born from a calm sky. And sotis, the loudest mouth belongs to the one who truly knows how to bring down walls."
Ronan turned toward him now, more curious than cautious, but the man's expression was unreadable—neither smug nor serious. Just there, like a shadow with a mouth.
"...You've seen this sort of thing before?" Ronan asked.
"Far more tis than I let on," the man replied without looking at him. "And if there's one lesson worth rembering, it's this—"
He finally turned, his eyes catching Ronan's just for a mont.
"—the world doesn't care what feels right for the story. It only cares what is."
Sothing in Ronan tensed. His curiosity folded into sothing tighter—almost a quiet dread.
"...Who are you, really?"
The man tilted his head slightly, then gave a lazy shrug. "Just so guy," he said, like it was an old line he'd recited a hundred tis.
His gaze drifted forward again, landing on Matt Willig, who was now soaking in the spotlight, arms raised.
Then he spoke again, almost casually.
"How about you step up next? You could try that move of yours—what do you call it again? Bone Breaking?"
Ronan's eyes sharpened.
The man smiled too mysterious to ignore, almost as if he could taste the tension.
"Or," he added, barely above a whisper, "you could always use that punch soaked in... Starfla."
Ronan froze in place.
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